THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


LAUNCELOT  AND  GUENEVERE 
A   POEM   IN   DRAMAS 


[I.    THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GUENEVERE 


BY  RICHARD  HOVEY 


LAUNCELOT  AND  GUENEVERE 
A  POEM  IN  DRAMAS 

I.    THE  QUEST  OF  MERLIN 
A  Masque 

II.    THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GUENEVERE 
A  Tragedy 

III.    THE  BIRTH  OF  GALAHAD 
A  Romantic  Drama 

IV.    TALIESIN 
A  Masque 

V.  THE  HOLY  GRAAL  AND  OTHER 
FRAGMENTS 

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TDE 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD-AND  COMPANY 
1909 


Copyright,  1891,  1895, 
BY  RICHARD  HOVEY. 


All  rights  reserved. 

Copyright,  1899, 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  Co. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PS 

2OO7 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GUENEVERB 


A     TRAGEDY 


827773 


Knights  of 
the  Round 
Table. 


PERSONS. 

ARTHUR,  King  of  Britain. 

MERLIN,  his  Counsellor. 

GODMAR,  the  Lord  Marshal, 

LAUNCELOT  DU  LAC, 

ECTOR  DE  MARIS,  Brother  of  Launcelot, 

LIONEL,  \  Cousins  o{  Launcelot, 

BORS  DE  GANYS,  } 

GALAHAULT, 

LADINAS  DE  LA  ROUSE, 

KAYE,  Lord  Seneschal  of  the  Palace, 

LEODEGRANCE,  King  of  Cameliard. 

PEREDURE,  his  Son,  a  Poet. 

PUBLIUS,  Ambassador  from  Rome. 

PRYDERI,  a  Leech. 

DAGONET,  a  Jester. 

GAWAINE,  a  lad,  son  of  Morgause. 

BORRE,  a  child,  illegitimate  son  of  Arthur. 

CAMALDUNA,  Queen  of  Cameliard. 

GUENEVERE,  her  Daughter,  afterward  Queen  of  Britain. 
MORGAUSE,  Arthur's  sister,  Queen  of  Orkney. 
LIONORS,  mother  of  Borre. 

Knights^    Ladies,   Ambassadors,    Heralds^  Pages,  Watch' 
men,  Attendants,  etc. 


Seme.  — Britain. 
Time. — May  and  June. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GUENEVERE. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I. — In  the  edge  of  a  wood  a  cavalcade  has 
dismounted  and  the  horses  are  tethered  among 
the  trees.  In  the  background  MERLIN  sits  alone 
on  a  high  place,  looking  at  the  towers  of  Ca- 
meliard,  which  are  seen  hazily  in  the  distance. 
A  group  of  Knights,  seated  in  the  foreground 
under  a  large  oak  tree,  have  just  ended  their  re 
past  and  the  attendants  bring  them  beakers  of 
wine.  In  this  group  may  be  noted  SIR  LIONEL, 
SIR  ECTOR  DE  MARIS,  SIR  BORS  DE  GANYS, 
and  SIR  GALAHAULT.  KING  ARTHUR  and 
SIR  LAUNCELOT  walk  apart  in  private  talk. 

ECTOR.  Thou  hast  not  loved,  Sir  Bors. 
LIONEL.  But  /  love,  cousin — 

As  fair  a  maid  as  e'er  wore  taffeta. 


By  the  Round  Table,  lords,  I  think  no  knight 

A  truer  lover !  Yet  hold  I  with  my  brother, 

f 
Friendship  is  nobler. 

ECTOR.  Were  thy  lady  here, 
Thou  durst  not  say  it. 

LIONEL.  Why,  who  tells  truth  to  women  ? 
They  love  us  better  for  a  soft  deceit 
And  feed  on  lies  like  sweetmeats. 

ECTOR.  There  are  friends 

Who  play  the  rogue  too  and  are  branded  false. 
But  false  in  love  too  often  is  a  jest 
Or  flaunts  itself  for  virtue.     Still  my  faith  is 
That  loyal  love  is  the  most  goodly  fruit 
That  grows  out  of  men's  hearts. 

BORS.  But  loyal  friendship, 

A  fruit  let  fall  by  angels  out  of  heaven, 
A  thing  to  die  for ! 

GALAHAULT.        Ay,  at  need  ;  but  love 
A  thing  to  live  for — this  is  bitterer. 

LIONEL.  Call  you  life  bitter  ? 

GALAHAULT.  Is  the  rind  so  sweet  ? 

I  can  conceive  a  man  so  weary  of  life 


That  he  would  quaff  mandragora  to  the  drains 
As  revellers  drink  wine.     Do  you  conceive, 
His  nearest  friend  beseeching,  such  a  man 
Would  forego  his  carouse  ?     But  if  his  love 
Came  to  him  saying  "  Live,  for  I  bid  thee  live," 
Though  life  and  love  alike  were  bitterness, 
He  would  pour  out  the  sweet  death  in  the  dust. 

BORS.  Love  seeks  a  guerdon  ;  friendship  is  as  God, 
Who  gives  and  asks  no  payment. 

GALAHAULT.  Tut,  ye  are  boys. 

Ye  deem  of  love  as  children  play  at  arms 
And  wit  not  what  a  slain  man  is.     Heard  ye 
Never  of  Arcite  and  of  Palamon 
That  were  good  knights  of  old  and  as  true  friends 
As  e'er  faced  death  together  ?     Yet  one  day, 
Seeing  a  fair  lady  in  a  garden  close, 
They  fell  a-wrangling.     Faith,  they  were  as  twins, 
Inseparate  from  the  womb  ;  and  yet  swift  love, 
In  less  space  than  a  man  might  look  and  say 
"  Lo  there  !  "  hath  sundered  them. 

BORS.  Look  where  the  King 

And  Launcelot  walk  together.     Think  you  that  they 
Would  fall  out  for  a  girl  ? 


GALAHAULT.  Strange  things  ere  now 

Have  happened  and  the  memory  of  men 
Outlived  them.     Yonder,  dreaming  in  the  sun, 
Behold  the  towers  of  Cameliard  !     Think  you 
The  King,  for  love  of  Launcelot,  would  yield 
The  white  enlacing  arms  of  Guenevere, 
Who  waits  there  for  the  splendor  of  his  coming 
To  make  her  Queen  of  Britain  ? 

LIONEL.  Launcelot  would, 

If  he  were  Arthur  and  Arthur  Launcelot. 
And  yet  I  think  that  Arthur's  love  is  thin 
And  substanceless  to  that  which  Launcelot 
Bears  the  mysterious  Lady  of  the  Hills 
Whom  none  have  ever  seen. 

GALAHAULT.  No  fickle  lover 

Can  prove  the  glory  and  the  might  of  love. 
The  King  has  loved — and  more  than  twice,  I  think. 

LIONEL.  Ay,  he  has  been  a  gay  dog  in  his  day. 

BORS.  He  is  the  sun.    If  there  be  spots  in  him, 
I  wfll  not  look  upon  them. 

LIONEL.  Nay,  brother, 

God  shield  I  speak  ill  of  the  King.    No  man 
This  side  of  dotage  loves  him  more  than  I. 


I  spoke  of  trivial  faults.     What  one  of  us, 
Unless  it  be  yourself  or  Launcelot, 
Hath  not  the  like  to  answer  ?     Even  the  tale 
The  common  tongue  hath  of  the  Queen  of  Ork 
ney — 

How  is  it  more  ?     They  knew  not  of  the  bond 
That  made  their  sin  more  than  the  heat  of  youth 
Might 

BORS.  Hush  !  it  is  half  treason  but  to  think 
What  we  give  words  to. 

ECTOR.  Morgause,  the  Queen  of  Orkney  I 

A  strange  dark  woman  ! 

GALAHAULT.  But  a  beauteous  one. 

[  The  Knights  rise  at  the  approach  of  the  King.] 

ARTHUR.    We  almost  touch  our  journey's  end, 

my  lords. 

Expected  joy  is  like  a  maid  that  nears 
With  coy  delay  and  timorous  advance, 
Eluding  our  stretched  hands.     So  have  I  thought 
To-day  would  never  reach  us  ;  yet  it  dawns. 
And  ere  the  sun  sets  in  the  western  sea, 
Your  swords  shall  serve  a  Queen. 

ECTOR.     Long  live  the  Princess  1 


LIONEL.    But  not  as  princess  long !    Long  live  the 

Queen ! 

A  beaker  to  the  bride  ! 
ALL.     Long  live  the  Queen  ! 

[Enter  a  LADY,  attended  by  a  DWARF.     She  throws 
herself  at  the  King* s  feet.] 

LADY.     If  ever  you  inclined  your  ear  to  sorrow, 
Be  pitiful  and  hear  me  ! 

ARTHUR.  Pray  you,  rise. 

LADY.     Nay,  I  will  statue  here  until  you  grant 
My  prayer. 

ARTHUR.  You  wrong  yourself.  What  is  your  grief? 

LADY.     Far  back  within  the  impenetrable  hills 
The  mighty  Turquine  dwells — of  those  fierce  tribes 
Who  yet  acknowledge  not  our  Saviour  Christ 
But  worship  barbarous  and  obscure  gods, — 
A  wicked  knave  ! — a  cruel,  treacherous  villain  ! — 
One  whose  delight  is  chiefly  to  work  wrong 
To  all  that  call  on  Mary  and  her  Son  ! 
This  unbelieving  dog  in  his  foul  lair 
With  momentary  tortures  racks  the  bones 
Of  my  true  lover.     Me,  as  well,  he  seized 

6 


And  set  his  love  on  me — if  that  be  love 

Which  such  a  beast  so  names — and  swore  an  oath 

To  bind  us  each,  if  I  received  him  not, 

And  make  my  living  lord  the  pillow  to 

His  savage  purpose.     But  I,  by  God's  help, 

Beguiled  him  and  escaped  ;  and  with  this  weak 

But  faithful  servitor,  through  lidless  nights 

And  days  that  burned  like  fever  in  my  brain, 

Lurked  in  the  caverns  of  the  hills  and  made 

The  wild  goats  my  companions. — Now,  for  thine 

oath's  sake 

And  in  the  name  of  all  fair  ladies  wronged, 
O  King,  I  cry  you,  do  me  right. 

ARTHUR.  Now  by 

My  sword  Excalibur,  it  were  great  shame 
Forever  to  all  knighthood  if  thy  plight 
Went  unredressed.     But  I  have  that  in  hand 
To-day  which  more  imports  me  than  the  wrongs 
Of  all  the  world.     To-day  I  take  a  wife. 
It  were  a  great  dishonor  if  the  feast 
Were    furnished    and    the  bridegroom    came  not. 

Therefore 
Set  on  with  us  to  Cameliard.     To-morrow 

7 


We  will  set  forth  with  all  our  chivalry 
To  hawk  at  this  foul  quarry. 

LADY.  Oh,  my  lord, 

Think  how  each  lapsing  moment  the  quick  groans 
Of  my  chained  lover  clamor  for  release. 
Wilt  thou  be  like  that  recreant  who  said, 
"  I  have  a  wife  and  therefore  cannot  come," 
When  the  Lord  of  Heaven  bade  him  ?  Nay  then,  I  see 
You  are  even  as  other  men,  whom  I  had  thought 
To  be  almost  divine.     I  know  I  come 
Unseasonably.     Grief  hath,  my  lord,  a  license 
To  overpass  the  bounds  of  courtesy. — 
Oh,  is  there  none  in  all  this  chivalry 
To  piece  his  prayers  to  mine  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  My  lord  the  King, 

I  claim  this  quest.     Go  you  to  Cameliard 
And  have  no  care  at  heart.     I,  with  three  others, 
Will  seek  and  slay  this  Turquine,  and  set  free 
His  mangled  captives. 

LADY.  Thou  and  but  three  else  ? 

LAUNCELOT.    It  is  sufficient. 

LADY.  Alas,  you  do  not  know 

The  peril  of  the  enterprise  ! 


ARTHUR.  Fear  not. 

It  is  Sir  Launcelot  of  the  Lake.     He  wonts  not 
To  fail  of  his  pledged  word. — My  Launcelot, 
I  had  wished  that  you  should  be  on  my  right  hand ; 
But  since  it  may  not  be — Our  Lady  speed  you ! 

LAUNCELOT.    Amen.     Fair  joy  be  to  your  bridal, 

Arthur ! 
Farewell ! — Now  who's  with  me  ? 

LIONEL.  I. 

BORS.  I. 

ECTOR.  And  I. 

LADY.     You  are  brave  men.      Come  victory  or 

defeat, 
I  am  bound  to  you  forever. 

LAUNCELOT.  Nay,  we  do 

No  more  but  our  mere  duties.     Lead  us  on. 
I  know  the  mountain  paths  of  old.     Armor 
And  steeds  would  cumber  us.     We'll  go  afoot, 
Armed  no  more  heavily  than  now  we  stand. 
Farewell,  my  liege  !     And  farewell,  gentlemen  ! 
We'll  drink  your  healths  ere  long  in  Camelot. 

[Exeunt  LAUNCELOT,   BORS,   ECTOR,    LIO 
NEL,  the  LADY,  and  the  DWARF.] 


ARTHUR.  Ah,  Galahault,  with  fifty  men  like  that, 
I  would  shape  this  old  world  like  a  putty-ball. — 
Set  on  to  Cameliard. 

[Enter  a  MESSENGER.] 

MESSENGER.  My  lord  the  King  ! 

King  Mark  of  Cornwall  has  renounced  his  fealty 
And  with  a  mighty  army  is  encamped 
Upon  your  borders.    Sir  Godmar,  the  Lord  Marshal, 
Has  ta'en  the  field  against  him,  but  beseeches 
You  haste  to  his  relief. 

ARTHUR.  Now,  by  my  crown, 

I  will  not  go.     The  heavens  conspire  to  block 
My  progress  to  the  towers  that  hold  my  bride. 
But  stood  the  Archangel  Michael  in  the  way, 
This  marriage  should  not  wait.     We  will  go  on  ; 
To-morrow  morn  is  time  enough  for  Mark. 
Sir  Galahault,  our  Queen  shall  be  your  charge 
Until  these  wars  are  over.     Come,  set  on  ! 

[While  the  cavalcade  is  preparing  to  move 
the  scene  closes.] 


SCENE  II. — A  rocky  pass  in  the  mountains.  Enter 
LAUNCELOT,  BORS,  LIONEL,  ECTOR,  the  LADY, 
and  the  DWARF. 

LAUNCELOT.     Let  me  rest  here  a  moment.     Nay, 

go  on  ; 

I  shall  o'ertake  you  ere  you  gain  the  crest. 
Cousin,  a  word  with  you. 

[Exeunt  all  but  BORS  and  LAUNCELOT.] 

What  blessed  chance 
Has  led  me  hither  ? 

BORS.  Cousin,  you  called  me  back. 

LAUNCELOT.  Why,  but  to  have  you  with  me, 

Bors.     This  place 

Is  like  a  sudden  scene  of  other  days 
That  starts  up  in  the  middle  of  a  dream ; 

BORS.  Have  you  been  here  ere  now  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  Ay,  and  that  time 
Would  stand  erect  and  vivid  in  my  brain 
Though  all  the  other  puppets  of  the  past 
Reeled  into  smoke.     This  is  the  very  spot. 


I  lay  here,  cousin,  even  here  where  this  gaunt  bram 
ble 

Still  tugs  a  meagre  life  out  of  the  cleft 
Where  it  is  rooted, — faint  almost  to  death  ; 
For  I  had  struggled  through  these  cruel  hills 
Three  days  without  a  crust,  and  my  head  swam 
And  my  legs  wavered  under  me  and  would  not 
Bear  me  upright.     Down  these  precipitous  crags 
And  o'er  these  dizzy  ledges  I  could  pass 
No  more  than  I  could  leap  across  yon  gulf, 
And  I  lay  down  and  thought  of  death,  as  of 
A  gulf  into  whose  blackness  one  might  leap 
And  fall  forever.     A  long  time  lay  I  so, 
Too  weak  to  struggle  with  impending  doom, 
And    death    seemed    like    to    yawn    and    swallow 
me. 

BORS.  And  yet  you  are  not  dead.     How  'scaped 
you,  then? 

LAUNCELOT.    God  sent   a  blessed  angel  to  my 

aid. 

There  on  the  peak  beyond  the  gulf  I  saw  her, 
Standing  against  the  sky,  with  garments  blown, 
The  mistress  of  the  winds  !     An  angel,  said  I  ? 


God  was  more  kind,  he  sent  a  woman  to  me. 

BORS.  The  Lady  of  the  Hills  ! 

LAUNCELOT.  Ay,  so  I  call  her, 

For  other  name  I  know  not. 

BORS.  The  unknown  lady, 

Whom  you  have  made  more  famous  than  a  queen ! 
Here  saw  you  her  the  first  time  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  And  the  last  time. 

She  was  attended  by  a  motley  Fool, 
Who  stretched  his  hand  and  pointed  where  I  lay. 
She  saw  me  and  in  pity  of  my  case 
Sent  Master  Dagonet — so  the  Fool  was  called 
But  he  nowise  would  tell  the  lady's  name — 
To  help  me  down  the  pass.     But  she  went  on 
Alone  across  the  summits  of  the  hills 
Like  some  grand  free  Diana  of  the  North 
And  passed  out  of  my  sight,  as  daylight  fades 
Out  of  the  western  sky.     But  I  no  more 
Was  faint,  and  went  my  way,  considering. 

BORS.    But  could  you  nowise  find  out  who  she 
was? 

LAUNCELOT.    Nowise,  for  Merlin  met  me  there 
upon, 


And  brought  me  suddenly  to  Camelot, 
Where  I  was  knighted.     I  had  fain  delayed 
But  boy -like  shamed  to  say  wherefore  my  heart 
Hung  back  toward  the  hills.     And  so  I  passed 
Away  from  her  and  never  saw  her  more. 

BORS.  Even  here  it  was  you  saw  her  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  Ay,  even  here. 

Bt)RS.  Why,  then,  should  you  not  meet  her  here 
again  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  The  hope  of  that  is  as  the  morning- 
star, 

The  messenger  of  dawn.     And  in  good  sooth 
I  have  a  feeling  in  my  heart  that  soon 
My  long  and  lightless  service  shall  have  end 
And  I  shall  serve  her  seeing.     But  our  friends 
Await  us.     I  shall  serve  my  lady  better 
With  noble  actions  than  with  idle  dreams. 

[Exeunt.] 

SCENE  III.  —  Cameliard.  The  Palace  of  Leode- 
grance.  A  chamber  hung  with  rich  embroider 
ies.  At  the  centre  a  wide  entrance  with  heavy 
curtains,  which  conceal  a  corridor.  At  the 


upper  right  corner  a  windra)  opening  on  a  bal 
cony  which  overlooks  the  sea.  GUENEVERE  is 
seated  before  this  window  with  a  harp. 

GUENEVERE.  [Sings],  The  flower-born  Blodueda, 
Great  joy  of  love  was  hers  ; 
Now  lonely  is  the  life  she  leads 
Among  the  moonlit  firs. 

The  white  enchantress,  Arianrod, 

The  daughter  of  King  Don, 
Hath  hidden  in  a  secret  place 

And  borne  a  goodly  son. 

But  he  shall  have  nor  name  nor  arms 

Wherewith  to  get  him  fame, 
Unless  his  mother's  heart  relent 

And  give  him  arms  and  name. 

Twice  hath  she  cursed  him  from  her  heart — 

Twice  and  yet  once  again, 
That  he  shall  never  take  a  wife 

Of  all  the  seed  of  men. 


Yet  all  unwitting  she  gave  him  arms, 
When  the  foe  was  in  the  land  ; 

And  all  unwitting  a  goodly  name, 
Llew  of  the  Steady  Hand. 

And  Gwydion,  the  son  of  Don, 
Hath  wrought  with  mighty  charms 

A  mystery  of  maidenhood 
To  lie  within  his  arms. 

He  took  the  blossoms  of  the  oak 
And  the  blossoms  of  the  broom 

And  the  blossoms  of  the  meadow-sweet 
And  fashioned  her  therefrom. 

Of  all  the  maidens  on  the  earth 

She  was  by  far  most  fair, 
And  the  memory  of  the  meadow-sweet 

Was  odors  in  her  hair. 

But  she  hath  given  her  heart  away 
To  the  stout  lord  of  Penllyn, 

And  he  is  slain  by  Cynvael's  banks, 
Betrayed  by  all  his  kin. 


And  oh,  and  she  were  light  of  heart 

Had  they  but  slain  her  so  ! 
In  likeness  of  a  mournful  owl, 

She  grieves  her  nightly  woe. 

The  motherless  Blodueda 

Shall  never  find  release  ; 
From  eve  till  morn  she  makes  her  moan 

Among  the  moonlit  trees. 

{While  GUENEVERE  sings,  MORGAUSE  has  entered, 


MORGAUSE.     It  is  a  sad  song  for  a  bride  to  sing. 

GUENEVERE.     I  did  not  know  that  anyone  was 
near. 

MORGAUSE.    I  did  not  mean  to  be  an  eaves 

dropper, 

But  as  I  entered  I  was  charmed  to  silence 
And  could  not  break  in  on  so  sweet  a  sound 
Before  the  singer  ceased. 

GUENEVERE.  I  thank  you,  madam  ; 

I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  compliments  to-day. 

MORGAUSE.     Not  to-day  of  all  days  in  the  year, 

a  »7 


In  which  the  sun  shines  on  you  as  a  bride  ? 
Fair  weather  weddings  make  fair  weather  lives. 

GUENEVERE.     I  care  not  much  for  omens. 

MORGAUSE.  Come,  sweetheart, 

There  is  a  time  to  mask  and  to  unmask, 
And  on  a  wedding  morn  the  light  of  joy 
Should  frolic  on  the  face  as  in  the  heart. 
The  courtiers  will  set  up  a  silly  tale 
That  this  alliance  is  against  your  will. 

GUENEVERE.  But  I  do  nothing,  save  of  my  free  will ; 
Let  the  vain  gossips  babble  as  they  please. 

MORGAUSE.     I  have  just  come  from  the  Great 

Hall.     You'll  have 

A  royal  ritual,  sweetheart, — such  a  retinue 
Of  dames  and  damosels,  barons  and  knights, 
As  Caesar's  self  could  hardly  muster  in 
Imperial  Rome. 

GUENEVERE.    Is  Peredure  without  ? 

MORGAUSE.    Gods,  hear  this  woman  !    I  tell  her 

of  her  wedding  ; 

She  answers  me — "  Is  Peredure  without?  " 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !     Now  what  would  Arthur  say 
To  find  himself  so  hindward  in  your  thoughts  ? 


GUENEVERE.      Peredure   is   not    like    my  other 

brothers, 

Wolf-eyed,  thick-bearded,  fond  of  dealing  blows. 
There's  something  of  the  woman  in  his  nature 
That  makes  his  manliness  a  finer  thing. 
He  has  the  courage  of  a  gentle  heart 

MORGAUSE.    And  he  writes  the  prettiest  rhymes 

that  ever  were 

About  some  marvellous  woman  that  he  loves 
But  whom  he  dare  not  woo.     Poor  boy,  when  he 
Is  older,  he  will  find  the  woman  lives  not 
Too  virtuous  to  be  flattered  by  a  conquest 
I  left  him  in  the  throng  about  the  throne 
With  such  a  woful  look  upon  his  face, 
As  if  the  rhymes  of  his  last  virelay 
Were  all  at  loggerheads. 

GUENEVERE.  Does  he  not  go 

With  us  to  Camelot  ? 

MORGAUSE.  'T  is  so  determined, 

I  marvel  that  Sir  Launcelot  is  not  here. 
A  month  ago,  ere  I  left  Camelot 
To  seek  a  friend  where  I  must  find  a  sister, 

It  was  supposed  that  Launcelot  would  be 
19 


The  chief  of  Arthur's  groomsmen.    Arthur  and  he 
Are  like  two  almonds  in  a  single  shell 
That  silly  maids  make  matron  wishes  on. 

GUENEVERE.     I  had  a  strange  dream  yesternight 

Methought 

An  unknown  knight  stood  by  my  bed,  and  as 
I  lay  spell-bound  in  dim  bewilderment, 
Cried  "  I  am  Launcelot !  " — and  I  awoke. 

MORGAUSE.     He  came,    then,    in    a    dream.     I 

thought  he  would  not 
Be  so  discourteous  as  to  keep  away 
Entirely. 

GUENEVERE.     Why  talk  ye  all  of  Launcelot  ? 
His  fame  spreads  westward  over  Wales  like  dawn. 
MORGAUSE.     He  has  the  reputation  of  all  virtue. 
GUENEVERE.    And  does  his  reputation  top  him 
self? 
MORGAUSE.     Sometimes  a  bonfire  imitates  the 

dawn. 
GUENEVERE.    Sometimes,  too,  dawn  is  taken  for 

a  bonfire ; — 

I  care  not.     Dawn  or  bonfire,  it  is  nothing 
To  me. 


MORGAUSE.    Nor  to  me  neither,  but  I  chafe 
To  hear  the  gabble  that  they  make  about  him. 
Why,  child,  the  world  is  gone  mad  at  his  heels ! 
They  tell  of  valor  that  despises  odds, 
And  courtesy  that  throws  prudence  to  the  drains — 
Such  tales  they  tell  of  him  !     And  as  for  women, 
There  is  not  maid  nor  wife  in  Camelot 
Whose  heart  is  not  a  spaniel  at  his  feet. 
And  yet  they  say  he  takes  no  fruit  of  it 
But  is  as  spotless  as  Saint  Dorothy — 
With  such  a  tittle-tattle  of  his  purity ! — 
Bah,  when  the  King  and  he  are  in  one  cry ! 

GUENEVERE  [truiRiJi     What  do  you  mean  ? 

MORGAUSE.              Oh,  nothing — I  mean  nothing. 
Your  husband  is  no  worse  than  other  men. 
The  Lady  Lionors  has  a  little  boy, 
But,  though  he  certainly  looks  like  the  King 

GUENEVERE.     Why  do  you  tell  me  this  ? 

MORGAUSE.  You  must  know  some  time 

What   you    had    better    learn    from    friends    than 

foes. 

You  are  leaving  now  the  world  of  fairy  tales, 
Where  all  the  men  are  true  of  heart  and  chaste 


And  all  the  women  chaste  and  true  of  heart. 
You  enter  now  the  world  in  which  we  live  ; 
You'll  find  it  peopled  in  another  fashion. 
Here  comes  a  very  wise  philosopher — 
Ask  him. 

[Enter  DAGONET.J 

GUENEVERE.     How  now,  sir  ?     You  look  soberly. 

DAGONET.  I  ?  I  am  as  merry  as  a  skull,  and  that 
is  always  grinning,  as  you  would  see  if  you  could  but 
look  beneath  the  skin. 

GUENEVERE.     A  grim  jest,  sirrah. 

DAGONET.  Ay,  it  is  ill  jesting  at  a  wedding. 
Aristophanes  himself,  who  first  wore  motley,  would 
go  hang  for  lack  of  a  laugh.  For  your  good  unctuous 
jest  must  have  a  soil  of  light  hearts  or  it  will  not 
grow  ;  and  there  is  a  predisposition  at  weddings  to 
solemnity. 

GUENEVERE.  Nay,  now  you  are  out ;  for  a  wed 
ding  is  a  joyous  matter. 

DAGONET.  But  no  laughing  matter,  my  lady. 
For  various  wise  philosophers  have  observed  that  in 
moments  of  most  exquisite  pleasure  the  expression 


of  the  face  is  solemn.  What  signifies  a  wedding  ? 
Harmony.  Now  the  essence  of  a  jest  is  contradic 
tion,  but  that  comes  after  the  wedding.  So  no  more 
jests  from  me,  my  lady,  till  you  have  done  with  eat 
ing  green  cheese,  which  is  excellent  diet  for  the 
moonstruck — but  I  prefer  Stilton. 

MORGAUSE.  Tell  us,  then,  good  Dagonet,  what 
is  the  most  pregnant  occasion  of  jesting. 

DAGONET.  A  funeral,  for  the  long  faces  of  the 
company  provoke  the  merry  devil  in  the  brain  as 
inevitably  as  a  Puritan  calls  out  mockery  from  the 
reprobate.  I  have  known  an  accidental  rasp  on  a 
viol  to  set  all  the  mourners — except  the  paid  ones— 
in  a  titter. 

[Sings.]     With  ribald  chalkings  on  his  coat 

Sir  Pompous  struts  the  street, 
And  wanton  boys  put  walnut-shells 
On  stately  Tabby's  feet. 

Ri  fol  de  riddle  rol. 

GUENEVERE.  Make  jests  at  my  funeral,  I  prithee, 

Dagonet. 

23 


DAGONET.  Death  himself  is  the  greatest  jester. 
He  is  the  farce  that  follows  all  tragedies.  For  is  it 
not  supremely  ridiculous  that  I  myself,  about  whom 
to-day  the  universe  revolves,  may  to-morrow  be  re 
duced  to  the  level  of  Alexander  or  any  common 
dead  body? 

MORGAUSE.  Do  you  make  yourself  greater  than 
Alexander,  Fool  ? 

DAGONET.  Ay,  or  any  other  corpse,  for  I  am 
alive  and  "  a  dead  lion  " — But  the  worms  have  eaten 
that,  too.  But  here  come  the  King  and  Queen.  I 
was  sent  to  announce  them,  but  these  lofty  matters 
have  made  me  forget  my  duty.  Philosophy  will 
undo  me  yet. 

[Enter   LEODEGRANCE,  CAMALDUNA,   PRYDERI. 
MERLIN,  GALAHAULT,  and  Attendants.} 

MERLIN.     May  Britain  find  its  peace  in  you,  my 

child. 

I  have  given  my  life  to  make  a  State.     I  found 
The  Saxons  ravaging  our  fields,  our  King 
The  traitor  Vortigern,  within  ourselves 

Each  petty  lord  in  arms  against  his  neighbor, 
24 


And  man  to  man  belligerent.     But  I 
Shall  leave  my  country  one,  victorious, 
Organic  and  at  peace.     And  in  the  top 
Of  this  great  arch  of  empire  you  are  set 
A  keystone,  that  it  may  not  fall,  when  Arthur 
And  I  take  our  supporting  hands  away. 
Your  destiny  is  glorious,  to  be 
Mother  of  kings  and  mother  of  a  realm. 

GUENEVERE.     And  mother  of  my  people,  sir,  I 

trust. 
GALAHAULT.     The  homage  duty  soon  must  pay 

my  queen, 

Beauty  compels  beforehand  to  the  woman. 
GUENEVERE.    You  use  fair  words  at  Camelot,  my 

lord; 

Our  mountain  courtiers  have  a  blunter  speech. 
MERLIN  [to  Morgause],     Still  where  the  quarry  is 

the  falcons  fly. 
MORGAUSE.     This  riddle  has  no  key.     Why  do 

you  speak, 
If  you  desire  not  to  be  understood  ? 

MERLIN.    I  wish  and  I  wisu  not  to  be  divined, 
And  you  divine  me  and  divine  me  not. 


For  you  are  not  so  subtle  as  you  think 
Nor  half  so  simple  as  you  would  be  thought. 

[Returns   to    the  King.      GUENEVERE,   MOR- 
GAUSE,  GALAHAULT,  and  DAGONET  walk 
apart  and  after  a  little  go  out  upon  the  bal 
cony!] 
LEODEGRANCE.   Why  interchange  you  with  the 

Queen  of  Orkney 
These  hostile  brows  ? 

MERLIN.  Though  she  be  Arthur's  sister, 

.Near  is  too  near,  unless 

LEODEGRANCE.  I  understand  you. 

Happy  the  man  in  whose  own  household  lurks 
No  secret  enemy  to  undermine  « 

His  purpose  and  his  joy.     But  she  will  make 
No  mischief  here.     My  girl  feels  honor  keenly 
And  will  not  stoop  to  listen  to  intrigue. 

MERLIN.  I  doubt  it  not.     The  very  waywardness 
That  rumor  speaks  of  her,  shows  a  great  soul, 
That  feels  too  prisoned  even  upon  a  throne. 
CAMALDUNA.  Indeed,  she  is  not  like  a  common 

girl, 
And  I  could  never  make  her  do  as  others. 


LEODEGRANCE.    Wild  as  the  sea-mew,  restless 

of  restraint, 

She  roams  the  jutting  capes  of  Cameliard, 
Like  some  strange  dweller  of  the  mountain  winds, 
Half  kelpie  and  half  woman.     The  highlander, 
Chasing  the  roe  o'er  cliff  and  chasm,  has  often 
Seen  her  lithe  form  rise  from  the  treeless  crag 
Like  smoke  from  a  hunter's  fire,  and  crossed  himself, 
Thinking  he  saw  a  creature  not  of  earth. 

MERLIN.  I  know  her  kind.     It  is  a  temperament 
That  suffers  and  achieves. 

CAMALDUNA.  A  little  girl, 

She    frighted    the    nurses  more  with  her  strange 

thoughts 

Than  ever  they  her  with  bogles.     I  remember 
Her  creeping  from  her  bed  once  in  midwinter 
To  ask  if  moonbuds  only  bloomed  at  night 
That  dead  men,  when  they  leave  their  graves  to 

walk, 
Might  have  their  flowers  also  like  the  living. 

PRYDERI.  As  the  young  limbs  enlarge,  the  bones 
will  ache ; 

Our  oldwives  call  such  ailments  "  growing  pains." 
27 


What  our  young  princess  needs  is  that  her  thoughts 
Be  drawn  away  from  looking  on  herself. 
The  duties  and  responsibilities 
That  push  us  from  our  dreams  and  make  us  sane 
By  contact  with  the  solid  stuff  of  life, 
These  things  a  woman  finds  in  household  cares. 
The  wife  and  mother  has  no  time  to  break 
The  wings  of  girlish  thoughts  with  idle  beating 
Against  the  bars  of  Fate.     Our  princess,  too, 
Must  bear  the  dignity  of  greater  burdens, 
Which  for  a  soul  imperious  is  good  fortune. 
Therefore,  as  a  physician,  who  must  watch 
Both  mind  and  body  as  they  interact, 
I  have  prescribed  this  marriage  as  a  medicine. 
LEODEGRANCE.    This  counsel  of  our  wise    and 

learned  leech 

Inclined  us  much  to  urge  on  Guenevere 
A  speedy  yes  to  Arthur's  suit.     At  first 
She  was,  indeed,  rebellious  to  our  wish 
And  marriage  thoughts  were  wormwood  to  her  will. 
Nathless  I  was  unwilling  to  assert 
My  power  as  King  and  father  to  compel 

Her  course  ;  for  still  I  find  the  easy  yoke 
28 


The  popular.     Yet,  short  of  straight  command, 
The  Queen  and  Pryderi, — and  I  myself,— 
Have  day  and  night  reiterated  words, 
Soliciting  with  cogent  argument, 
Till  she  consented.     She  herself  now  chooses 
The  man  of  all  men  I  would  have  her  lord. 
For  I  have  not  forgotten  how  King  Arthur 
With  Ban  and  Bors  routed  my  enemies 
And  with  their  triple  armies  saved  my  crown.— 
Go,  call  the  princess  hither.     Yet  in  sooth, 
What  should  an  old  man  say  to  a  young  maid  ? 
The  Queen  shall  speak  to  her.     Madam,  we  shall 
Withdraw  and  leave  her  to  your  tutelage. 

GUENEVERE.  You  called  me,  sire. 

LEODEGRANCE.  To  say  farewell,  my  child, 

Before  I  yield  thee  to  thy  bridegroom's  arms. 
Our  Lady  Mary  keep  thee  !     Come,  my  lords. 

MERLIN.  I  wish  you  greatness,  lady. 

MORGAUSE.  And  I  goodness. 

PRYDERI.  I  health  and  length  of  days. 

GALAHAULT.  I  happiness. 

[Exeunt  LEODEGRANCE,  MERLIN,   PRYDERI, 
MORGAUSE,  and  GALAHAULT.] 


DAGONET.  And  I  a  light  heart  and  an  easy  pal 
frey  that  the  way  may  seem  short  to  Camelot. 

[Sings.}      Merrily  canter  on  through  life 
And  joy  shall  be  your  store, 
But  if  you  ride  a  trotting  nag 
Your  buttocks  will  be  sore. 
Ri  fol  de  riddle  roL 

{Exit.} 

CAMALDUNA.     So  far,  my    daughter,  you    have 

walked  your  way, 

Self-willed,  imperious,  like  a  wanton  child 
That  will  not  let  her  parents  hold  her  hand, 
Yet  knows  them  near  to  save  her  if  she  fall. 
Now  they  will  not  be  near,  and  you  may  find 
That  freedom  lays  a  weight  upon  our  souls 
That  often  we  would  like  to  shift  to  others. 
I  fear  that  counsel  is  poured  out  on  you 
Like  an  effectless  wind  ;  yet  hear  my  words. 
Take  you  no  woman  in  your  confidence, 
But  seem  to  do  so.     Each  has  her  own  ends, 
And  would  betray  you  seventy  times  over, 

And  yet,  repulsed,  her  selfishness  through  pique 
3° 


May  aggravate  to  active  enmity. 
Speak  freely,  but  say  little.     Do  not  strive 
Too  far  to  outshine  the  ladies  of  the  court 
In  jewelled  ornaments  and  regal  garb  ; 
They'll  hate  you  for  it.     Be  profuse  of  favors  ; 
They  cost  you  little  and  will  buy  you  hearts. 
Yet  do  not  play  the  braggart  with  your  bounty- 
Scorn  lies  beneath  too  much  magnificence — 
But  always  give  as  if  the  gifts  were  trifles 
To  eyes  that  see  to  whom  the  gifts  are  given. 
All  women  are  your  natural  enemies  ; 
Think  your  end  gained  if  they  refrain  from  hate, 
But  seek  your  friends  among  the  other  sex. 
Men  have  no  quarrel  with  your  eminence ; 
Your  glory  with  their  glory  does  not  war, 
But  each  may  gain  some  splendor  from  the  other. 
Therefore,  they  may  be  faithful ;  but  admit  them 
Only  to  the  antechamber  of  your  thoughts, 
That  their  imagination  may  have  scope 
To  fashion  a  dream-Guenevere  to  serve. 
Not  what  we  are  but  what  men  deem  of  us, 
Is  the  true  prince.     Be  faithful  to  your  husband, 

Yet  not  so  servient  as  to  jade  his  fondness. 
31 


Let  him  be  often  foreign  to  your  life 
That  he  may  feel  your  lack  and  woo  you  over. 
Be  not  too  common  to  him.     Hold  him  off 
That  you  may  bind  him  to  you.     For  in  him 
Your  domination  lies.     See  that  he  has 
No  friend  that  is  not  yours,  no  counsellor 
Whose  secret  thoughts  are  not  your  interests. 
Be  chaste  as  snow  in  heart  as  well  as  deed  ; 
One  spark  of  love  may  light  a  fire  to  burn 
The  edifice  of  your  greatness  to  an  ash. 
Nor  be  contented  with  the  innocent  fact 
But  make  your  seeming  lock  the  lips  of  slander. 
And  yet  you  may  have  lovers  if  you  will ; 
The  more  the  better,  so  you  love  not  them. 
For  till  we  yield  we  are  our  lovers'  tyrants, 
But  afterward  their  slaves.     Remember  this. 
GUENEVERE.  Pray  you,  a  little  space  alone,  good 
mother. 
[CAMALDUNA  kisses  Guenevere,  and  then  goes 

out,} 

Why,  what  a  thing  is  woman  !  She  is  brought 
Into  the  world  unwelcome.     The  mother  weeps 

That  she  has  born  a  daughter  to  endure 
32 


A  woman's  fate.     The  father  knits  his  brows 
And  mutters  "  Pish,  't  is  but  a  girl !  "     A  boy 
The  very  hounds  had  bayed  for  with  delight. 
Her  childhood  is  a  petty  tyranny. 
Her  brothers  cross  her  ;  she  must  not  resist, — 
Her  father  laughs  to  see  the  little  men 
So  masterful  already.     Even  the  mother 
Looks  on  her  truculent  sons  with  pride  and  bids 
Her    yield,   not    thwart   them  —  "You   are   but   a 

girl." 

A  girl ! — and  must  give  way  !     She  must  be  quiet, 
Demure — not  have  her  freedom  with  the  boys. 
While  they  are  running  on  the  battlements, 
Playing  at  war  or  at  the  chase,  she  sits 
Eating  her  heart  out  at  embroidery  frames 
Among  old  dames  that  chatter  of  a  world 
Where  women  are  put  up  as  merchandise. 
— Oh,  I  have  slipped  away  a  thousand  times 
Into  the  garden  close  and  scaled  the  wall 
And  fled  from  them  to  freedom  and  the  hills. 
And  I  have  passed  the  women  in  the  fields, 
With  stupid  faces  dulled  by  long  constraint, 
Bowing  their  backs  beneath  the  double  burden 

3  33 


Of  labor  and  unkindness — all  alike, 

Princess  and  peasant,  bondslaves,  by  their  sex  ! 

Ah,  the  gray  crags  up  whose  sheer  precipices 

I  have  so  often  toiled,  to  throw  myself 

Panting  upon  their  crests  at  last  and  lie 

For  whole  long  afternoons  upon  the  hard 

Delicious  rock  in  that  sweet  weariness 

That  follows  effort,  with  a  silent  joy 

In  obstacles  that  I  could  overcome. 

They  never  called  me  girl,  those  mighty  peaks  ! 

They  knew  no  sex, — they  took  me  to  their  hearts 

As  if  I  were  a  boy.     Oh,  the  wild  thrill 

That  tingled  in  the  veins,  when  the  strong  winds 

Came  howling  like  a  pack  of  hungry  wolves 

That  make  the  wintry  forests  terrible 

Beneath  the  Norland  moon  !     "  Shriek  on,"  I  cried, 

"Rave,    howl,    roar,   bellow,    till  .you    split    your 

throats  ! 

You  cannot  mar  the  pinnacled  repose 
Of   these     huge    mountain-tops.      They    are    not 

women  !  " 

Why,  what  an  idle  rage  is  this  !     Am  I 
The  Guenevere  those  still  grand  mountains  know  ? 

34 


This  is  a  bridal  garment  that  I  wear. 
I  am  another  Guenevere,  a  thing — 
I  know  not  what.     I  go  to  a  new  life. 
I  have  ordered  a  new  pair  of  manacles. 
Arthur?     As  well  Arthur  as  another — 
I  care  not.     If  I  must,  I  must.     To  live 
The  old  life  is  no  longer  tolerable. 

[Enter  PEREDURE.] 

My  brother  !     You  have  come  to  see  my  gown. 
Is  it  not  beautiful  ?     And  see,  this  diadem 
To  show  I 

PEREDURE.     Guenevere !     How  is  it  with  you  ? 

GUENEVERE.  Why,  as  it  should  be  with  a  bride. 

It  seems 

You  ask  strange  questions,  brother.     I  had  thought 
I  should  be  greeted  with  felicitations. 
They  say,  a  maid  upon  her  wedding  morn 
Is  timorous,  fluttered,  casts  regretful  eyes 
— Or  so  she  fancies — on  her  maidenhood, 
And  yet  is  glad  withal.     Seem  I  not  so, 
My  brother  ?    Am  I ? 

35 


PEREDURE.  All's  not  well  with  you. 

You  seem  as  one  that  in  a  waking  dream 
Does — what,  she  knows  not — with  mechanic  limbs. 
My  sister,  dost  thou  act  of  thy  free  will  ? 

GUENEVERE.  Who  acts  so?     Life    and   custom 

close  us  in 

Between  such  granite  walls  of  circumstance 
That,  when  we  choose,  it  is  not  as  we  would 
But  between  courses  where  each  likes  us  not. 
No,  Peredure,  it  is  not  by  constraint, 
Save  of  the  iron  skies,  I  meet  my  lot. 
I  have  not  chosen  it,  but  I  accept  it. 

PEREDURE.     Think  well.     Once  done,  this  can- 
•      not  be  undone. 

You  love  not  Arthur.     This  is  not  the  face 
Of  one  that  hastens  to  her  lover's  arms. 
Think  you  that  you  will  ever  love  him  ? 

GUENEVERE.  Love  ? 

I  have  heard  of  it.     Poets  sing  of  it. 
It  must  be  a  strange  thing,  this  love. 

PEREDURE.  Alas, 


If  thou  shouldst  learn  what  thing  it  is  too  late  ! 
Girl,  knowest  thou  what  marriage  means  ?     Oh,  if 
When  once  the  fatal  ring  is  on  thy  finger, 
Thou    shouldst    encounter    some    one    who    should 

kindle 

Thy  latent  heart  to  flame.     To  be  caressed 
When  thou  art  cold  —  this  is  a  bitter  thing. 
But  to  be  fondled  by  an  unloved  hand, 
When  all  the  soul  is  in  another's  arms  — 
That  were  a  horror  and  a  sacrilege. 

GUENEVERE.     I  shall  not  love.     But  sometime  I 

must  wed. 

It  is  the  law  for  women  that  they  marry ; 
Else  they  endure  a  scorned  inactive  fate, 
Unwelcome  hangers-on  at  others'  tables. 
Besides,  a  girl's  life  is  a  cabined  one; 
A  married  woman  has  a  wider  scope. 
She,  too,  is  chained  but  with  a  longer  tether ; 
She  moves  in  the  great  world,  and  by  that  craft 
God  gives  to  creatures  that  have  little  strength, 
May  leave  her  impress  on  it.     As  for  Arthur, 
He  is  a  very  princely  gentleman, 
One  whom  at  least  I  never  shall  despise. 

37 


PEREDURE.    Men  say  he  is  the  crown  of  chivalry. 
The  pattern  of  the  virtues  of  a  knight. 
But  should  he  cloud  the  clear  sky  of  thy  life, 
I  ne'er  should  pardon  him. 

GUENEVERE.  My  brother! 

PEREDURE.  Dear, 

I  fear  that  Arthur  ne'er  will  know  as  I 
The  gentleness  of  this  imperious  spirit. 
I  have  asked  Morgause  much 

GUENEVERE.  I  hate  that  woman. 

PEREDURE.    Oh,  say  not  so,  she  is  so  fair !    O 

sister, 

I  did  not  think  to  tell  thee  of  my  sorrows 
At  such  a  season.     When  I  spoke  of  love 
And  pleaded  with  thee  to  have  fear  of  it, 
I  had  good  reason  for  my  earnestness. 
I  know  myself  too  well  the  hopeless  woe 
Of  love  debarred,  against  which  Fate  is  set. 
I  love  Morgause 

GUENEVERE.  Morgause?     The    Queen    oi 

Orkney  ? 
The  wife  of  Lot  ? 

PEREDURE.          Ay,  Guenevere,  even  so — 
38 


I  love  her.     I  would  give  my  hopes  of  heaven 

To  press  my  lips  against  that  flower-like  mouth 

And  call  her  mine  !     Ay,  I  would  die  to  feel 

Once  on  my  cheek  the  swan-soft  touch  of  hers  ! 

But  I  must  make  a  dungeon  of  my  heart 

To  hide  my  love  in  like  a  malefactor, — 

Or  like  some  hapless  prisoner  of  state 

Who  ne'er  did  wrong  but  must  be  shut  from  the  sun 

For  the  realm's  safety  and  in  some  dark  cell 

Is  numbered  with  the  dead.     Oh,  think  of  this 

And  do  not  build  a  prison  for  thyself 

From  whose  barred  windows  thou  may'st  sometime 

see 

Love  beckoning  to  thee  when  thou  canst  not  come  I 
There  is  no  sorrow  like  a  love  denied 
Nor  any  joy  like  love  that  has  its  will. 
Oh,  keep  thy  feet  unbound  to  follow  Love 
When  he  shall  come  to  lead  thee  to  his  rest ! 
Keep  thy  hands  free  to  take  his  proffered  gifts, 
Thy  heart  unbound  by  barriers  that  prevent 
The  joy  he  would,  but  for  our  blindness,  bring 
To  make  a  rapture  and  a  song  of  life  ! 
Believe • 

39 


GUENEVERE.      You   talk  of  songs  and  raptures  ! 

Go 

Back  to  your  poetry,  you  child  of  dream !  , 
Life  is  to  be  supported,  not  enjoyed. 
PEREDURE.    Oh,  no !  it  is  \o  be  enjoyed.     Why 

else 

Should  God  have  made  the  world  so  beautiful  ? 
And  yet  for  me  the  glory  of  the  hills, 
The  beauty  of  the  sky's  dissolving  blue, 
And  all  the  woven  magic  of  the  grass 
Have  dulled  their  loveliness,  and  all  their  splendor 
Cannot  arouse  again  the  ancient  thrill. 
There  is  a  grayness  over  all  the  world. 
Love  is  not  to  be  mocked  at,  Guenevere. 
Take  heed !     Look  in  thy  heart,  and  be  assured 
That  thou  hast  read  it  rightly.     If  a  doubt, 
If  but  the  faint  foreboding  of  a  scruple 

Be  there,  delay,  break  off  this  rash 

GUENEVERE.  Too  late ! 

\The  curtains  at  the  centre  are  drawn  apart,  re 
vealing  a  company  of  ladies  in  festal  attire, 
•with  garlands,  etc.  A  distant  sound  of 
chanting.~\ 


See    where    my    bridesmaids   wait    with   wreaths    of 

roses 
To  lead  me  to  the  altar  and  the  prince. 

PEREDURE.     Is  it  a  triumph  or  a  sacrifice? 
GUENEVERE.     God  knows  !     Forme,  I  have  chosen 

to  go  this  course, 
And  I  will  keep  to  it  till  the  event. 

Exit  with  bridesmaids.] 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Camelot.  The  gardens,  MORGAUSE, 
PEREDURE,  LIONORS,  GAWAINE,  DAGONET, 
KAYE,  and  others. 

MORGAUSE.    The  day  is   dull.      Shall  we  have 
music  ? 

KAYE.          Ay, 
A  rousing  song ! 

LIONORS.  He's  all  for  tavern  catches 

Or  martial  strains  of  braggadocio. 

DAGONET.  It  is  the  finitude  of  his  wit,  whereof 
he  has  neither  enough  to  be  merry  without  drinking 
nor  to  be  silent  when  drunk. 

KAYE.  Drunk,  varlet  ? 

DAGONET.  If  I  called  it  a  finer  name,  you  would 
not  follow  me. 

LIONORS.  Nay,  for  that  would  be  false  manners. 
Would  you  have  the  nobleman  follow  the  fool  ? 

DAGONET.  No  more  than  I  would  have  the  ass 
42 


follow  the  driver.     Let  me  but  carry  the  whip  and 
he  shall  take  precedence  as  much  as  he  will. 

MORGAUSE.  Peredure,  is  there  not  a  madrigal 
Knocking  against  your  heart  to  be  let  out  ? 
Our  idleness  feeds  on  the  empty  day 
As  a  chameleon  on  the  air.     Come,  sing 
And  give  us  richer  nurture. 

PEREDURE.  As  you  will. 

There  is  a  story  written  in  this  book 
Of  two  young  lovers  in  far  Italy 
And  how  they  dreamed  away  a  summer  noon 
Upon  the  Arno.     Reading  this  but  now, 
/fell  a-dreaming,  /was  in  the  boat, 
And    round    my    neck    her  wondrous   arms   were 

thrown — 
And  then,  I  scarce  know  how,  the  song  was  made. 

[Sings.]        Love  me ! 

I  care  not  for  this  one  brief  hour 

If  blue  calm  smile  or  tempest  lower 

Above  me. 

I  care  not  though  the  boat  sink  now 
If  only  thou 

Wilt  love  me. 

43 


Kiss! 

Ah  sweet,  what  joy  hi  fame  or  years 
Or  yellow  gold  ?     Life  burns  through  tears 

For  this. 

Ah,  what  though  God  should  cast  away 
The  world  to-day ! 

Kiss! 

GAWAINE.  A  silly  song!    That's  not  the  way  to 

love. 
MORGAUSE.    What  do    you    know  of   love,   Ga- 

waine? 

GAWAIXE.   Enough 

To  know  that  it  is  a  silly  song,  my  mother. 
MORGAUSE.  Are  you  but  sixteen  and  know  love 

already? 

[Enter  PUBLIUS  and  LADIN AS . ] 

The  age  has  grown  so  forward  that  our  children 
Will  make  us  grandams  ere  our  heads  are  gray. — 
You  join  us  late,  Sir  Ladinas. 

LADINAS.  Royal  Orkney, 

The  courtesy  of  Camelot  to  a  guest 


Must  be  my  plea.    Lord  Publius  comes  from  Rome 
With  weighty  missives  from  the  Emperor. 
While  he  awaits  the  King's  return  from  Cornwall, 
He  must  not  sigh  for  the  Campagna. 

MORGAUSE.  Welcome. 

Will  you  make  one  of  our  too  idle  party  ? 
We  have  been  merry  with  inconsequences, 
Tossing  our  empty  fancies  back  and  forth 
Like  shuttlecocks,  for  wantonness.     I  fear 
You  are  too  serious  for  these  bagatelles. 

PUBLIUS.   Let  me  not  spoil  your  entertainment, 

madam. 

So  many  fair  young  faces  are  about  me, 
Such  a  spring-burst  of  beauty  and  of  youth, 
I  shall  grow  young  myself  for  sympathy. 

GAWAINE  [apart  to  LIONORS].     What  an  old  flub ! 

\Aloud.\  Now,  madam,  if  you  like, 
I'll  sing  a  song  I  learned  the  other  day 
And  wager  twenty  pounds  against  a  shilling 
Mine  is  the  better  love -song  of  the  two. 

MORGAUSE.  What  say  you,  ladies?     Shall  this 
fledgling  sing  ? 

LIONORS.  I  am  sure  he  will  sing  well. 

45 


GAWAINE    [apart  to  LIONORS].      I'll   pay   thai 

speech 
With  twenty  kisses  for  a  word  to-night. 

{Sings.    MORGAUSE,   PUBLIUS,  and  LADINAS 
converse  apart  earnestly^ 

It  was  a  sonsie  shepherd  lass 

So  early  in  the  morning 
That  tripped  across  the  dewy  grass 

And  tossed  her  curls  for  scorning. 

But  ere  she  passed  the  brook,  she  cast 

A  look  across  her  shoulder 
That  made  the  pitapats  come  fast 

And  yet  my  heart  grew  bolder. 

A  look,  a  smile,  a  jest,  a  sigh, 

A  kiss  and,  ere  we're  madder, 
A  glance  to  see  that  no  one's  nigh — 

And  this  is  Cupid's  ladder. 

LIONORS.     Oh,  fie !  it  is  a  jade's  song.    Naughty 
boy, 

You  must  be  good  or  you'll  be  sent  to  bed. 
46 


DAGONET   [to  Peredure].     She  cries   "boy"  too 
loudly.     Oh,  la  la  !     Ostriches,  ostriches  ! 

MORGAUSE.    Come, let's  to  tennis.    \To  Peredure. \ 
Will  you  play  with  me  ? 

DAGONET  [aside].    Ay,  that  he  will,  and  lose  the 
game  too,  for  all  your  faults. 

[Some  play  and  the  others  gather  about  as  spec 
tators^ 

LADINAS  \to  Publius}.     What  think  you  ?     Have 
I  not  achieved  an  ally  of  great  price  ? 

PUBLIUS.    It  is  well  done.    And  no  one  of  the 

court 
Suspects  you  are  Rome's  secret  emissary? 

LADINAS.    Suspect  a  Knight  of  the  Round  Table  ? 

They  would 
As  soon  suspect  the  blessed  angels. 

PUBLIUS.  Yet 

There  was  a  Lucifer 

LADINAS.     No  more  of  that ! 
I  do  not  mean  to  sell  my  contraband 
For  barren  rank  or  tinsel  decorations. 
I  am  no  barbarous  chieftain  of  the  Zaire 

47 


To  trade  my  ivory  for  a  string  of  beads. 

I  must  have  money ;  you  must  make  me  rich 

Beyond  the  power  of  prodigality 

To  dissipate — rich,  rich ;  the  rest  is  toys 

For  babes  to  play  with  t 

PUBLIUS.  You  shall  have  your  will. 

But  say  what  motive  pricks  the  Queen  of  Orkney  ? 

LADINAS.    She  hates  the  King  as  none  can  hate 

but  they 

Who  once  have  loved.     It  is  the  tale  that  ere 
The  mystery  of  Arthur's  parentage 
Was  by  his  mother's  oath  made  clear,  he  fought 
With  Lot  of  Orkney  and  defeated  him. 
Then  came  this  queen,  Morgause,  the  wife  of  Lot, 
And  Arthur's  sister,  but  they  knew  it  not ; 
And  Arthur  was  enamoured,  nor  was  she 
Unwilling.     And,  indeed,  men  say  a  child 
Was  born  and  hidden  somewhere  in  the  hills, 
And  that  by  him  his  father  shall  be  slain. 
And  others  say  the  King  is  free  from  stain, — 
None  knows.     But 't  is  most  certain  that  they  loved  ; 
And  still  the  Queen  of  Orkney  will  not  think 
That  Arthur  is  her  brother,  but  believes 


That  for  the  crown  he  cast  her  love  away. 
Judge  how  she  hates  him. 

PUBLIUS.  And  you  love  this  woman  ? 

LADINAS.     Ay,  as  the  lost  knight  in  the  hollow  hill 
Loves  Venus !     .     .     .     .     See   you   the   fair  lady 

yonder, 

Who  leads  the  stripling  prince,  Gawaine,  at  heel 
Like  a  pet  greyhound  ? 

PUBLIUS.  Well,  and  what  of  her  ? 

LADINAS.     Her  name  is  Lionors,  and  of  old  time 
She  was  the  mistress  of  the  King  ;  but  now 
The  Queen  of  Orkney  keeps  her  in  her  train 
That  she  may  flaunt  in  Guenevere's  proud  face 
Her  bridegroom's  old  adulteries. 

MORGAUSE.  Love  game ! 

It  is  the  set,  my  lord.  [A  trumpet  without.] 

PUBLIUS.     Is  it  a  herald  of  the  King's  return  ? 

LADINAS.     He  will  not  come  so  soon.     We  shall 

have  time 

To  spread  a  snare  that  he  cannot  escape, 
Though  how  is  all  uncertain  yet. 


49 


[Enter  GALAHAULT.] 

GALAHAULT.    Good  news ! 
Ladies,  glad  news  !     Sir  Launcelot  is  returned. 

SEVERAL.     What  say  you  ?     Launcelot  ? 

GALAHAULT.     Launcelot  and  his  kinsmen, 
Lionel  and  Ector  and  the  good  Sir  Bors. 

[Enter  LAUNCELOT  and  BORS.] 

MORGAUSE.    All  honor  to  the  realm's  pre-eminent 

knight, 

Returned,  I  doubt  not,  from  a  glorious  quest ! 
Honor  and  welcome  to  the  good  Sir  Bors  ! 
LAUNCELOT.    Thanks,  gentle  lady.     Joy  be  with 

you  all ! 
Where  is  the  King  ? 

DAGONET.  Welcome  to  Camelot— 

To  my  new  capital  of  Foolery  ! 

LAUNCELOT.  What,  Dagonet !  [Aside,]  The  Fool ! 

Where  is  the  lady  ? 

DAGONET.  You  have  too  good  a  memory,  sir,  for 
a  man  of  place.     But,  indeed,  I  knew  not  it  was  you 

when  I  saved  you.     Nathless,  without  me  you  had 
s° 


not  done  these  great  deeds  ;  ergo,  you  must  have 
done  them  with  me.  Now  see  what  it  is  to  be  mod 
est  ;  I  had  no  idea  I  was  a  man  of  this  mettle. 

MORGAUSE  [aside].     What's  this  ?    What's  this  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  Now,  by  my  sword,  I  am 

Right  glad  to  see  your  merry  face  again. 
Where  is  the  King  ? 

DAGONET.  Why,  I  am  king  now  and  these  are  my 
subjects.  See  you  not  how,  like  good  courtiers,  they 
mimic  me  ? 

KAYE.  How  do  we  mimic  you,  sirrah  ? 

DAGONET.  Marry,  by  making  fools  of  yourselves. 

LADINAS.  The    King,  sir,  is   in   Cornwall  at   the 
wars. 

LAUNCELOT.  I  am  right  sorry  that  he  is  not  here, 
For  since  I  set  my  face  toward  Camelot, 
For  joy  that  I  should  see  him  I  have  been 
Light-hearted  as  a  boy.     I  would  clasp  hands 
And  wish  him  happiness  with  his  young  bride  ! 
The  rumor  of  her  beauty  has  gone  out 
From  end  to  end  of  Britain.     I  have  heard 
She  moves  among  our  gardens  like  a  dream 
Of  empired  loveliness  in  far  Cathay. 

5' 


Lead  me  to  her,  Sir  Galahault.     I  must 
Do  homage  to  my  queen.     Ah,  gentle  lady — 
She  shall  not  find  in  Camelot,  I  swear, 
A  heart  more  leal  to  her  than  Launcelot's. 
Henceforth  I'll  wear  no  colors  in  the  lists 
But  those  of  Arthur's  bride. 

[Enter  GUENEVERE  and  LADIES.     She  stops  in  the 
centre,  looking  at  LAUNCELOT.] 

Dear  Galahault, 

'T  is  my  first  duty  both  to  king  and  friend 
To  lay  my  good  sword  at  his  lady's  feet. 

Lead  me  to  her 

Bors  !     Galahault !     Is  it ?     It  is 

GALAHAULT.  The  Queen! 

LAUNCELOT.  I  shall  be  leal  to  her  indeed.    Just 
God! 

\He  recovers  himself.  As  he  steps  forward 
with  GALAHAULT  toward  the  QUEEN  the 
scene  closes.] 


SCENE  II.— The  Apartments  of  GALAHAULT.     En 
ter  LAUNCELOT,  GALAHAULT,  and  BORS. 

BORS.  Prithee,  Galahault,  a  stoup  of  wine !  I  have 
the  dust  of  seven  kingdoms  in  my  throat 

GALAHAULT.     Some  wine,  ho  ! 

BORS.  What,  Launcelot,  not  a  word  ?  I  have  not 
seen  thee  so  cast  down  since  Ector  was  taken  cap 
tive  by  that  rude  infidel,  Sir  Turquine,  whom  thou 
slew'st. 

[Enter  a  SERVANT  with  wine.] 

What,  man,  gladden  thy  heart  with  this. 

[Drinks.] 

LAUNCELOT.  I  think  that  wine  will  never  be 
aught  but  bitter  to  me  again,  and  that  I  shall  hate 
the  perfume  of  flowers  and  the  melody  of  lutes  and 
mandolins  as  long  as  I  live.  Oh,  my  friends,  I  am 
but  the  husk  of  what  I  was,  and  all  that  was  savory 
in  me  is  consumed. 

[Exit  SERVANT  with  cups,  etc.] 

BORS.     Thou'st  not   been   thyself  since   we   were 

53 


presented  to  the  Queen.  I  mind  me  now  how  thou 
didst  start  then  and  heave  thy  sides,  as  if  thou  'dst 
seen  a  spirit.  What — Galahault — is  't  possible  ? 

GALAHAULT.  O  Bors,  Bors,  Bors,  the  maids  of 

Camelot 

Say  rightly  that  thou  hast  not  loved  ;  for  else 
His  sorrow  were  no  riddle. 

BORS.  Nay,  to  me 

A  riddle  darker  with  increasing  light. 
What,  is  the  Lady  of  the  Hills  forgot  ? 
Have  human  hearts  no  stronger  faith  ?     For  I 
Had  looked  to  thee,  O  cousin,  as  the  type 
Of  faith.     Wilt  thou  betray  the  King,  thy  friend, 
Even  in  thought  ? 

LAUNCELOT.        Peace,  peace  !     What  ails  that  I 
Should  e'er  be  false  to  Arthur  ?     Rest  you  safe, 
I  have  no  lady  if  it  be  not  she 
Whom  I  have  called  the  Lady  of  the  Hills. 

BORS.  Nay,  cousin,  use  me  frankly. 

LAUNCELOT.  Betray  the  King  ? 

Thou  talkest  of  thou  knowest  not  what.     Is  't  pos 
sible 
That  I  betray  the  King  ? 

54 


BORS.  What  name  was  it 

You  gave  the  jester  that  we  met  below  ? 

GALAHAULT.  What,  here  ?  His  name  is  Dagonet. 

The  Queen 
Brought  him  with  her  from  Cameliard. 

BORS.  The  Queen  ? 

Dagonet  ?     By  heaven,  it  is  as  clear  as  noon. 
This  is  the  very  Fool  that  saved  his  life 
For  he  did  call  him  Dagonet  that  day 
He  told  the  story  to  me.     And  the  Queen, 
The  Queen  herself  s  the  Lady  of  the  Hills.— 
Thou  lovest  her. 

LAUNCELOT.        Ay,  as  the  lost  love  heaven  ! 

BORS.     Alas,  I  pity  thee  ;  thy  stars  are  evil. 
But  thou  art  noble  and  wilt  not  forget 
Thy  triple  duty,  God,  the  King,  thy  friend. 

LAUNCELOT.     Duty?    The  word  is  colder  than 

the  moon. 

Thou  art  an  icy  counsellor.     Dost  think 
That  love  will,  like  a  hound  that  licks  my  hand, 
Down  at  my  bidding  ?     Nay,  thou  hast  not  loved, 
Nor  dost  not  know  that  when  Love  enters  in, 

He  enters  as  a  master,  not  a  slave. 

'     55 


GALAHAULT.    True,   Launcelot,  Love  is  tameless- 

as  wild  beasts. 

Chains  for  his  limbs  but  leave  his  spirit  more  free 
To  think  the  thing  it  may  not  act.     Hunger 
Is  his  best  nourishment  and  he  grows  apace 
Upon  starvation.     If  he  die  at  all, 
He  dies  of  surfeit,  not  of  abstinence. 

BORS.      But  shall  our  champion  of    an  hundred 

fights, 

Whose  name  is  one  with  valor's,  be  o'erthrown 
By  an  effeminate  longing,  like  a  girl  ? 

GALAHAULT.      Speak   not  in  scorn  of    love,  Sir 

Bors.     There  are 

But  two  things  under  heaven  unconquerable 
And  certain,  Love  and  Death. 

[Enter  a  PAGE.] 

PAGE  \to   LAUNCELOT].     My  lord,  your  brothers 
Have  sent  to  seek  you. 

LAUNCELOT.  Good,  my  cousin  Bors, 

Go  thou  for  me ;  I  cannot  see  them  now ; — 
I  have  no  heart. 

56 


BORS.  Go,  tell  them  I  come  quickly. 

[Exit  PAGE.] 

You  will  be  your  great  self  and  turn  this  love, 
If  it  be  true  that 't  will  not  be  cast  out, 
To  something  high  and  noble.     It  may  be, 
As  I  can  hardly  think  but  that  you  live 
Under  some  special  warrant,  that  God  means 
You  should  do  great  deeds  in  your  lady's  name, 
And  in  the  chronicles  of  Time  be  set 
For  an  example  to  the  yet  unborn 
How  love  may  cast  out  love's  disloyalties, 
And  lovers,  marvelling  at  such  sacrifice, 
Shall  say,  "  So  loved  the  good  knight  Launcelot." 

[Exit.} 

LAUNCELOT.      "  The    traitor    Launcelot ! "    for    I 

hear  them  now,  — 
Cold,  scornful  voices  of  futurity 
That  speak  so  cruel-calmly  of  the  dead  ! 
Oh,  Galahault,  for  love  of  my  good  name 
Pluck  out  your  sword  and  kill  me,  for  I  see 
Whate'er  I  do,  it  will  be  violence  — 
To  soul  or  body,  others  or  myself. 
You  will  not?     It  would  be  a  kindly  deed. 

57 


— And  yet  I  saw  her  first.     What  right  had  he 
To  steal  her  from  me  ?     I  have  served  her  well 
Two  years,  laid  all  my  laurels  at  her  feet, 
Won  all  my  victories  in  her  sweet  name, 

Though  yet  I  knew  it  not.     What  right  had  he ? 

Nay,  nay,  she  loves  him — who  could  love  him  not  ? — 
And  I  shall  hate  him,  hate  my  dearest  friend, 
Because oh,  God  !  oh,  God  ! 

GALAHAULT.  Why  grieve  so  soon  ? 

You  know  not  yet  if  she  denies  your  love. 
What  if  she  should  not  ? 

LAUNCELOT.                   Galahault !    You  make 
My  poor  head  dizzy  with  quick-coming  hopes. 
What ! — you  mean  ? — it  cannot  be 

GALAHAULT.  Why  not  ? 

She  does  not  love  the  King  ;  of  that  I  am  certain. 
Sure,  you  are  worth  the  love  of  any  woman, 
Were  she  ten  times  a  queen  ! 

LAUNCELOT.  She  does  not  love  him  ? 

Are  you  sure,  sir  ?  Are  you  sure  ?  I  dare  not  hope  it. 

GALAHAULT.    She  is  as  virgin  of  the  thought  of 
love 

As  winter  is  of  flowers. 

58 


LAUNCELOT.  But  he  loves  her ; 

And  it  would  rive  his  heart.     He  is  my  friend, — 
Think,  Galahault,  my  friend  ! 

GALAHAULT.                         Love  knows  no  friend 
Nor  foe  save  friends  and  foes  to  his  desire. 
Seek  not  to  palter  with  him,  for  he  is 
More  tyrannous  than  Nero  in  his  cups. 
He  will  endure  no  bargains,  so  much  love 
And  so  much  virtue.     You  must  yield  him  all 
Or  he'll  not  grant  you  anything.     What  profits 
The  King  if  for  his  sake  you  let  all  slip  ? 
Why,  that  were  chivalry  run  mad,  for  though 
She  love  not  you,  she  ne'er  will  love  the  King. 
Seek  other  rivals,  for  not  all  the  charms 
Of  Merlin  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Would  now  avail  to  quicken  in  her  lone  heart 
A  pulse  of  love  for  Arthur.     Did  she  hate  him, 
That  might  turn  love  ;  but  when  a  husband  seems 
A  mere  indifferent  covenanted  thing, 
She's  like  to  love  the  Devil  sooner.     And  can 
You  calmly  think  that  even  your  friend  of  friends, 
Lacking  her  heart,  should  call  her  body  his, 
Should  sting  that  throat  with  kisses  and ? 


LAUNCELOT.  Damnation ! 

Her  body  ? 

GALAHAULT.    Ay,  I  said  so. 

LAUNCELOT.  Not  if  he 

Were  fifty  friends  or  fifty  hundred  kings  ! 

GALAHAULT.     Why,  now  you  are  a  lover.    Come 

with  me. 
The  Queen  is  in  the  orchard. 

LAUNCELOT.  Galahault ! 

GALAHAULT.     Look  through  the  casement  here. 

See  where  she  walks, 
As  if  a  rose  grew  on  a  lily's  stem, 
So  blending  passionate  life  and  stately  mien. 
How  like  a  lioness  she  steps  and  pauses, 
With  grand,  slow-moving  eyes 

LAUNCELOT.     No  more !  no  more  !  [Exeunt.] 


SCENE  III. — A  Bower  in  the  Gardens.     GUENE- 
VERE   and  LADIES. 

GUENEVERE.     You  may  withdraw,  ladies. 

[Exeunt  LADIES.] 
60 


They  did  him  wrong 

Who  called  him  but  the  goodliest  of  men, 
For  he  is  like  a  god.     What  did  she  say  ? 
"  There  is  not  maid  nor  wife  in  Camelot 
Whose  heart  is  not  a  spaniel  at  his  feet." 
Oh,  I  should  hate  them  if  they  loved  him  not, 
And  hate  them  that  they  love  him.     What  if  he 

hide 

Unworth  behind  that  fair  exterior  ! 
And  shall  he  add  me  to  his  list  of  slaves  ? 
Yet,  though  I  hate  myself  that  am  so  cheap, 
And  love  myself  that  he  should  be  so  dear, 
And  am  a  thousand  things  at  once,  each  eyewink 
In  arms  against  its  neighbor — what  should  I  do, 

If  he ?     I  am  too  poor  a  thing  to  live, 

And  yet  so  happy  that  I  am  so  poor  ! 
And  yet  so  wretched  that  I  am  so  happy ! 
Why,  had  he  laughed  into  my  startled  eyes 
And  asked  "Dost  thou  adore  me  ?  "  I  had  lacked 
Power  to  keep  back  the  "  Yes  "  within  my  soul. 
Or  had   he   clutched  my  wrist   and   pulled  me   to 

him 
And  bade  me  love  him,  there  before  them  all, 

61 


I  would  have  put  my  lips  up  for  a  kiss. 

.     .     .     Yonder  he  comes.     Why  should  he  seek  me 

out? 

I  am  nought  to  him,  one  of  a  thousand  women 
Whose  lives  have  crossed  his  somewhere  and  then 

passed 

Into  the  dark.     His  Queen — a  stupid  word ! 
His  Queen,  when  he  may  hear  the  lightest  wish 
Some  other  utters,  as  a  Queen's  command  ? 
No  Queen  at  all,  unless  his  Queen  in  all ! 
I  will  not  love — and  he  shall  never  know. 
I  would  I  had  not  sent  my  maids  away. 
I  lie  ;  I  am  glad  they  are  not  here.     I  felt 
That  he  was  coming  when  I  bade  them  go. 

[Enter  LAUNCELOT.] 

Does  he  do  reverence  to  the  Queen  or  me  ? — 
Good-morrow,  sir.     You  like  our  gardens,  too. 
'T  is  a  sweet  place  ;  June  lays  her  heart  bare  here 
And  sighs  her  soul  out  through  the  passionate  air. 
LAUNCELOT.     There  is  no  garden  like  it  in  the 

world. 

62 


GUENEVERE.     I  did  not  guess  you  were  so  fond  of 

gardens. 

I  thought  of  you  with  lance  and  battle-axe 
In  the  forefront  of  war — yet  not  as  one 
That  kills  his  fellows  with  a  savage  joy — 
But  with  pale  brow  where  anger  never  writ 
His  ugly  name  in  frowns. 

LAUNCELOT.  You  thought  of  me  ? 

GUENEVERE.    Who  does  not  think  of  you?    Your 

fame  is  blown 
Further  than  Cameliard. 

LAUNCELOT.  And  you  thought  of  me 

As  hard  and  cruel  ? 

GUENEVERE.          Never  for  a  breath  ! 
And  yet  I  did  not  think  that  you  would  feel 
The  strange  delicious  sweet  of  such  a  place. 

LAUNCELOT.    I  never  felt  it  as  I  do  to-day, — 
Though  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
There  was  a  beautiful  lady  who  would  come 
Across  the  lake  and  take  me  in  her  skiff 
And  tell  me  wondrous  tales,  tales  which  still  make 
A  low  confused  murmur  in  my  brain 

Like  the  vague  undertone  of  many  bees. 
63 


I  called  her  "  fairy  mother"  then,  but  now 

Men  tell  me  that  she  was  that  Nimue, 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  whom  Merlin  loves. 

I  know  not.     I  remember  only  how 

I  leaned  my  head  over  the  boat's  edge,  looking 

Deep  through  the  water  to  another  sky, 

So  clear  the  water  was  ;  and,  as  I  leaned, 

My  soul  went  swooning  down  that  crystal  space, 

Down,  down  forever,  till  sinking  seemed  to  turn 

To  rising,  with  the  sky  not  far  away. 

GUENEVERE.     Tell  me  more  of  your  life.     You 

must  have  seen 
So  much  in  its  young  course — have  done  so  much. 

LAUNCELOT.     Nay,  little   that   I  can  remember. 

I  am 

Strangely  unable  to  distinguish  one 
Good  or  ill  hap  out  of  the  blur  of  things, 
Battles  and  tourneys,  one  much  like  the  other, 
And  lost  already  in  the  murmurous  past. 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  just  born  to-day 
With  life  before  me  like  this  summer  air, 
Hushed,  as  in  waiting  for  a  bird  to  sing, 
Who  yet  delays,  and  all  is  fresh  and  fair, 

64 


And  hope  stands  flushing  like  a  rosy  boy 
Upon  a  threshold  which  he  fears  to  cross. 
But  what  I  fear  or  what  I  hope,  indeed 
I  hardly  know — and  yet  I  hope  and  fear. 

GUENEVERE.     But  surely  some  recognizable  peak 
Soars  up  among  the  mountains  of  your  deeds 
That  you  can  show  me. 

LAUNCELOT.  Indeed  there  is  a  height 

So  near  me  that  it  shuts  out  all  my  life  ; 
But  I  have  not  attained  it.     One  event 
I  well  remember,  but  it  was  a  vision, 
Not  an  achievement.     That  was  when  I  first 
Beheld  you. 

GUENEVERE.    Have  you  seen  me,  then,  before  ? 
And  you  remember  it  and  I  forget  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  I  should  have  died  of  faintness  in 

the  hills 
If  you  had  not  stood  by. 

GUENEVERE.  What,  were  you  he 

Whom  Dagonet  the  Fool  saved  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  I  am  he. 

Gu  ENEVERE.  How  strangely  are  the  threads  of  life 
inwoven ! — 

c  5 


Yet  since  you  will  not  tell  me  of  your  deeds, 
Tell  me  at  least  for  whom  you  do  them. 

LAUNCELOT.  Ah,  me  ! 

GUENEVERE.  I  know  that  for  some  dame  or  dam- 

osel 

You  do  them.     Tell  me,  by  the  faith  you  owe  me, 
Who  is  the  lady  ?     For  I  know  thou  lovest. 

LAUNCELOT.  Say  that  I  do  so,  were  it  not  far  bet 
ter 

That  this  new  birth  had  never  been  conceived  ; 
Since  even  while  I  babble  of  its  joy, 
Grief  glooms  above  it  like  the  shadow  of  death  ? 

GUENEVERE.     What  part  hath  grief  in  thee,  Sir 

Launcelot  ? 

I  might  as  soon  paint  sorrow  on  the  face 
Of  blessed  Michael  standing  in  the  sun. 

LAUNCELOT.  Queen,  that  I  love  is  true  ;  and  love 

should  be 

More  joy  on  earth  than  Michael  hath  in  heaven. 
But  I  have  been  too  much  beloved  of  Fortune  ; 
And  she  hath  dowered  me  with  all  goodly  gifts 
Only  in  the  end  to  turn  them  to  a  gibe. 
For  all  my  feats  of  arms  were  done  for  you, 

66 


And  if  you  love  me  not,  it  had  been  better 

My  mother  died  a  maid — and  should  you  love, 

Which  yet  I  dare  not  hope,  our  lives  must  be 

Like  outcast  angels,  glorious  with  shade, 

A  bitter  gladness  and  a  radiant  AVOC. 

Ay,  for  't  is  you  I  love.     Love  leaped  to  life 

Within  me  when  I  saw  you  in  the  hills, 

As  Saint  John  leaped  within  his  mother's  womb 

When  Mary  drew  near,  childing  of  the  Christ. 

Speak  to  me  !     Will  you  outstare  marble  ?     God  ! 

I  say,  I  love  you.     See,  I  crawl  to  you ! — 

I  pray  you  pardon  me.     I  see  you  are 

Too  merciful  to  speak.     I  give  you  pain ; — 

I  have  spoken  wildly.    Fare  you  well !  I  will  not — 


{Rushes  oJT.] 
GUENEVERE.     He  loves  me  !     Oh,  how  good  it  is 

to  draw 

Deep  breaths  of  this  rich-scented  air.     The  odor 
Seems  to  pass  into  me.     Does  love  transfigure 
The  world  like  this  ?     Nay,  then  it  is  a  god, 
That's  certain. 


[Enter  GALAHAULT  at  the  back  among  the  trees. 
LAUNCELOT  follows  him,  beseeching.} 

LAUNCELOT.  Oh,  be  silent  for  my  sake 
Or  I  shall  die  of  shame. 

[Throws  himself  on  his  face  under  a  willow  in 
the  background.} 

GALAHAULT  [advancing}.  O  cruel  Queen  ! 
What  have  you  done  to  my   poor   friend  ?     Look 

where 

He  lies  upon  his  face  and  heaves  his  sides, 
Like  a  dumb  animal  hurt  unto  death. 
Oh,  what  a  loss  were  there,  if  he  indeed, 
Pierced  with  your  scorn,  should  die  ! 

GUENEVERE    [musing,     unconscious     of   GALA- 

HAULT'S  presence].       The  greater  loss 
Were  mine.     O  heart,  my  heart,  rememberest  thou 
What  he  has  said  ? 

GALAHAULT.  What  ? 

GUENEVERE.  If  his  words  be  true, 

He  has  done  all  his  deeds  of  arms  wherewith 
The  sky's  blue  concave  rings,  for  me,  me  only. 

G.  ALAHAULT.   He  may  well  be  believed,  for  as  he  is 


Of  all  men  the  most  valiant,  so  he  hath 
A  truer  heart  than  others. 

GUENEVERE.  They  say  well 

That  he  of  all  men  is  most  valorous, 
For  he  has  done  such  doughty  feats  of  arms 
As  no  knight  else.     And  this,  all  this  he  did 
For  me. 

GALAHAULT.  Why,  then,  you  should  be  pitiful. 

GUENEVERE.     How  pitiful,  in  sooth  ?     The  cliffs 

and  crags 

Of  Cameliard  have  left  me  ignorant 
Of  much,  I  doubt  not,  that  our  Camelot  dames 
Suck  with  their  mother's  milk.     But  yesterday 
Love  was  to  me  an  idle  poet's  song. 

GALAHAULT.  This  is  not  yesterday  ;  for  now  you 

know 

How  more  than  all  fair  women  he  loves  you, 
More  than  his  life,  yes,  more  than  his  own  soul ; 
And  that  for  you  he  has  done  more  than  knight 
Did  ever  yet  for  lady. 

GUENEVERE.  More  indeed 

Than  I  can  ever  merit.     Could  he  ask 

Anything  of  me  that  I  could  deny  ? 
69 


— But  he  has  asked  me  nothing.     Only  he  is 
So  sorrowful  that  it  is  marvellous. 

GALAHAULT.    Then  heal  that  sorrow,  madam,  for 
you  may. 

GUENEVERE.  He  asked  me  nothing. 

GALAHAULT.  Nor  would  never  ask, 

Love  is  so  fearful  when  it  is  new-born. 
But  I  plead  for  him.     This  is  what  he  would, — 
That  you  should  love  him  and  retain  him  ever 
To  be  your  knight,  and  that  you  should  become 
His  loyal  lady  for  your  whole  life  long. 
Grant  this  and  you  will  make  him  richer  far 
Than  if  you  gave  the  world. 

GUENEVERE.  I  have  given  him  all 

The  world  I  have,  the  world  of  my  own  thoughts, 
Desires  and  aspirations,  hopes  and  fears. 
— You  see,  I  trust  you,  sir.     I  know  not  how 
You  come  upon  my  dream,  like  a  strange  shape 
That  casts  a  shadow  where  no  shadows  are. 
But  you  are  here,  although  you  be  but  thickened 
Out  of  the  air  before  me,  as  my  thoughts 
In  like  wise  now  round  to  a  definite  orb. 

I  know  that  he  is  mine  and  I  all  his, 
70 


And  that  you  somehow,  strangely,  have  been  part 
Of  things  ill  done  and  mended. 

LAUNCELOT.  No,  I  dream. 

It  is  not  she  that  speaks.     Dear  God,  if  this 
Be  but  a  dream,  oh  let  me  die  and  find 
That  heaven  is  just  to  dream  forever  thus. 

GALAHAULT.  Gramercy.    Now  'tis  fit  you  enter  on 
Love's  service.     Kiss  him  once  before  me,  madam, 
For  the  beginning  of  true  love. 

GUENEVERE.  Those  yonder,  sure, 

Would  marvel  much  that  we  should  do  such  deeds. 

GALAHAULT.     No  one  will  see.          [Turns  away.] 

GUENEVERE.      And  if  they  did ?  —  Why,  Launcelot, 
You  tremble  like  a  leaf.     Will  you  not  kiss  me  ? 
Are  you  afraid  ?     Nay,  then  I  will  kiss  you. 

[She  takes  him  by  the  chin  and  kisses  him.} 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Camelot,  Gallery  and  portico  in  the 
apartments  of  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  overlooking 
a  great  water.  LlONORS  and  BORRE. 

BORRE.  Mamma, 
I  like  to  talk  to  you  about  Gawaine. 

LlONORS.  Why,  darling  ? 

BORRE.  Because  you  hold  me  close  to  you, 

And  kiss  me  so. 

LlONORS.  My  little  innocent  wisdom  ! 

BORRE.  Gawaine  never  kisses  me.     And  yet  he  is 
kind; 

He  gives  me  sweets  and Oh,  mamma,  look  !  look  ! 

The  moon — how  big  it  is  !     It  comes  right  up, 
Right  up  out  of  the  mere,  just  like  Gawaine 
When  he  is  swimming.    You  know,  he  plunges  under 
And  then  his  head  comes  up  'way  over  yonder, 
And  then  he  shakes  the  drops  out  of  his  hair 
And  wipes  his  eyes  with  his  fingers.    The  moon  is  bald 
Like  poor  old  Hugh  the  gardener.     That's  why 
The  water  doesn't  stick  to  it. 


LlONORS  [kissing  hini\.         Sweetheart!    See 
How  still  the  moonlight  lies  upon  the  water  ! 

BORRE.  It's  like  a  silver  road. 

LIONORS.  How  would  you  like 

For  you  and  me  to  go  out  hand  in  hand 
As  we  do  i'  the  meadows,  and  pluck  those  flowers 
That  grow  on  the  waves  by  moonlight,  and  so  go  on 
And  on  and  on  until  we  came  to  Fairyland  ? 

BORRE.  I'm  'fraid  we'd  get  our  feet  wet. 

LIONORS.  I'm  afraid  we  might. 

BORRE.  But  what's  a  road  for,  if  you  mayn't  walk 

on  it  ? 

Mamma,  I  don't  think  it's  a  road  at  all ; 
It's  a  river. 

LIONORS.  A  river,  love  ? 

BORRE.  A  river  of  shine  ; 

The  fairies  go  swimming  in  't. 

[Enter  PEREDURE.] 

LIONORS.  Good  even,  sir. 

The  Queen  of  Orkney  is  engaged  within. 
So  please  you  wait  with  me  a  little  while, 
She'll  see  you  presently. 


PEREDURE.  I  will  remain  ; 

You  are  very  gracious. — Well,  my  little  dreamer  ! 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  with  your  great  brown  eyes 
Looking  so  wistfully  on  the  mere  ?     Come,  kiss  me. 
What  do  you  see  out  there  ? 

BORRE.  My  lord,  who  lives 

I'  the  sea  ? 

PEREDURE.  Why,  the  fishes,  Borre. 

BORRE.  And  the  old  crabs 

With  their  great  ugly  claws — I  know.     But  I  think 
A  princess  lives  there  in  a  crystal  palace, 
All  white  and  cool,  with  crabs  to  guard  the  gates. 
That's  why  their  arms   are   so  long,  you  know — to 

catch 
The  robbers  with. 

PEREDURE.          Are  there  robbers  in  the  sea  ? 

BORRE.    Oh,   yes !    that's   such    a  pretty  story. 

Mamma, 

Tell  it  to  him — you  know,  the  one  you  told 
Last  night — about  the  water-kelpies  that  tried 
To  steal  the  princess'  treasure. 

LIONORS.  Some  other  time, 

Sweetheart. 

74 


BORRE.       Oh,  please,  mamma,  please  tell  it  J 

LlONORS.  Not 

To-night,  dear.     It  grows  late,  and  it  is  time 
For  little  folk  to  be  abed.     Come,  Borre, 
We'll  go  find  nurse. — Excuse  me,  pray,  my  lord  ; 
I  will  return  soon. 

BORRE.  I  don't  want  to  go  ; 

I  am  not  sleepy. 

PEREDURE.         Let  me  carry  him. 
Wouldn't  you  like  a  ride  upon  my  shoulder  ? 
That's  it.     Now  we  go.     Lead  on,  my  lady. 

BORRE.  Hey! 

[Exeunt  LIONORS,  PEREDURE,  and  BORRE.J 

[Enter  MORGAUSE  and  PUBLIUS.] 

PUBLIUS.  If  it  be  true,  as  you  suspect 

MORGAUSE.  No  fear ! 

You  are  very  wise  and  subtle,  good  my  lord, 

But  trust  a  woman's  wit  as  subtler  still 

Where  woman's  heart's   at   question.      You    were 
there ; 

Your  eyes  were  fixed,  as  all  eyes,  on  the  Queen ; 

Yet  you  nor  no  man  there  saw  what  I  saw. 

75 


I  tell  you,  when  a  woman's  eyes  are  lit 

With  such  a  light  as  that  I  saw  in  hers 

The  while  she  gazed  at  Launcelot,  'tis  small  matter 

Whether  she  flinch  or  falter  to  the  world — 

She  loves. 

PUBLIUS.     Well,   let   us    grant,   then,   that   she 

loves ; 

You  women  sometimes  prove  absurdly  right, 
And  I  incline  to  trust  you.     But  the  King 
Will  ask  more  solid  proofs. 

MORGAUSE.  And  he  shall  have  them  ! 

Ay,  if  I  pull  the  ruin  on  myself, 
I'll  find  the  engines  somewhere  to  upheave 
The  pillars  of  his  peace.     Oh,  he  doth  vex  me 
Beyond  endurance  with  that  calm  of  his, 
That  silly  satisfaction  on  his  face, 
As  if  he  were  some  god,  forsooth,  and  deigned 
To  live  with  men  as  a  sun  might  deign  to  shine. 

PUBLIUS.     Do   not  forget    the    most    important 

thing, 

That  Launcelot  must  quarrel  with  the  King ; 
For  thence  I  see  a  great  advantage  grow 

For  Rome,  and  you  will  not  forget,  I  hope, 
76 


That  Caesar's  vantage  wins  for  Arthur's  ruin,  * 

I  do  not  ask  you  why  you  hate  the  King  ; 
Work  for  my  ends  and  I  will  work  for  yours. 

MORGAUSE.  Agreed.     But  we  must  cast  our  lines 

for  proofs, — 

And  yonder  comes  an  angle  for  my  hook. 
Withdraw,  my  lord  ;  leave  me  alone  with  him. 
PUBLIUS.     My  humble  duty,  madam. 

[Exit.} 

[Enter  PEREDURE.] 

MORGAUSE.  Peredure ! 

It  is  kind  in  you  to  come  to  me,  my  lord. 
Sit  by  me  here.     I  am  sad  to-night  and  know  not 
What  'tis  oppresses  me. 

PEREDURE.  Would  that  I  had 

The  power  to  shield  off  sorrow  from  you,  madam  ! 

MORGAUSE.  Why,  would  you  use  it  if  you  had, 

my  lord  ? 

A  little  thing  might  do  it  for  the  nonce, 
But  yet  I  fear  me  you  would  scruple. 

PEREDURE.  Scruple  ? 

I  am  no  coward  ;  I  would  die  to  serve  you. 

77 


MORGAUSE.  I  know  you  are  no  coward,  and  I  think 
You  are  indeed  my  friend. — Too  much  of  this  ! 
You  are  a  poet.     Sing  me  a  sweet  song, 
Whose  music  may  caress  my  pained  heart. 

PEREDURE.  Lend  me  your  cithern,  lady. 

MORGAUSE.  Who  says  now 

That  I  am  not  the  royalest  queen  alive, 
That  have  a  king's  son  for  my  troubadour  ? 

PEREDURE  [sings], 

You  remind  me,  sweeting, 

Of  the  glow, 

Warm  and  pure  and  fleeting, 
— Blush  of  apple-blossoms — 

On  cloud-bosoms, 
When  the  sun  is  low. 

Like  a  golden  apple, 

'  Mid  the  far 

Topmost  leaves  that  dapple 
Stretch  of  summer  blue — 

There  are  you, 

Sky-set  like  a  star. 
78 


Fearful  lest  I  bruise  you, 

How  should  I 

Dare  to  reach  you,  choose  you, 
Stain  you  with  my  touch  ? 

It  is  much 
That  you  star  the  sky. 

Why  should  I  be  climbing, 

So  to  seize 

All  that  sets  me  rhyming — 
In  my  hand  enfold 

All  that  gold 
Of  Hesperides  ? 

I  would  not  enfold  you, 

If  I  might. 

I  would  just  behold  you, 
Sigh  and  turn  away, 

While  the  day 
Darkens  into  night. 

MORGAUSE.  You  sigh,  my  lord.      Did   not   the 

lady  yield, 
After  so  sweet  a  plaining  in  her  ear  ? 

79 


.    .     .     Methinks  I  had  not  been  so  obdurate. 
To  give  unsought  is  sweetest  to  the  giver. 
Love  such  as  yours,  that  asks  no  recompense, 
Pleads  for  that  reason  more  persuasively. 
.     .     .     Men  love  not  often  so — in  Camelot. 

PEREDURE.  The  beautiful  lady  of  my   soul,   for 

whom 
My    song    was    made,    knows    not    my    love    for 

her. 

The  greatest  happiness  that  I  can  hope 
Is  to  sing  for  her,  sitting  at  her  feet, 
As  I  do  now  at  yours.     I  dare  not  vex 
Her  spirit  with  the  story  of  my  love, 
Lest  I  should  lose  the  little  bliss  I  have 
Nor  gain  no  greater  neither. 

MORGAUSE.  You  are  too  fearful. 

Who  would  not  throw  a  bit  of  glass  aside 
To  win  a  diamond  ?     You  cheat  yourself 
With  the  vain  semblance  of  a  love,  my  lord. 
Be  bold  and  snatch  the  real.     Why,  who  knows 
But  that  your  lady  pines  to  yield  herself 
As  you  to  win  her  ? 

PEREDURE.  Oh,  do  not  stir  up 

80 


The  devil  in  my, soul !     There  is  a  chasm 
Between  our  ways. 

MORGAUSE.  And  will  you  let  her  droop 

And  die,  poor  lady,  dreaming  that  her  life 
Is  wasted  ointment  spilt  out  on  the  floor, 
When  but  a  word  were  Siloam  to  her  eyes 
To  let  her  see  she  had  poured  a  priceless  chrism 
Over  the  very  body  of  Love  ?     If  she 
Were  I  and  spoke  to  you  as  I  do  now, 
How  would  you  answer  her  ? 

PEREDURE.  Upon  my  knees. 

Forgive  me,  my  beloved. 

MORGAUSE.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

PEREDURE.  That  you  indeed  are  she. 

MORGAUSE.  Alas,  alas  ! 

What  must  you  think  ?     Indeed  I  knew  not  this. 

PEREDURE.  Oh,   kill  me   with   your  hands,  not 

with  your  grief. 

Oh  love,  love,  love,  I  ne'er  had  thus  offended, 
But  all  my  brain  was  whirling  with  your  words. 

MORGAUSE.     We  are  most  fortunate  and  unfortu 
nate. 

PEREDURE.  And  dost  thou  love,  then,  too  ? 

6  81 


MORGAUSE.  I  have  loved  thee  long. — 

Why  do  you  tremble  so  ?     Surely  it  is 
No  sin  that  we  should  love. 

PEREDURE.  Can  that  be  sin 

Which  makes  me  greater-hearted  than  before  ? 

MORGAUSE.  Why  do  you  stand  apart  ?     Let  me 

lean  on  you. — 

Oh,  take  me  in  your  strong  arms,  Peredure  ! 
Surely  it  is  no  sin  for  us  to  kiss. 

PEREDURE.  God  help  me,  I  scarce  know  where 

sin  begins ; 

For  I  am  caught  up  in  a  wind  of  passion 
That  sweeps  me  where  it  will. 

[  The  tinkling  of  a  lute  without^ 

MORGAUSE  [starting].  It  is  not  safe 

For  you  to  be  found  here  so  late.     I  hear 
My  women  with  their  lutes.     Nay,  do  not  go — 
Nay,  but  you  must — but  first  one  kiss,  my  love. — 
Give  me  the  key  to  your  secret  door.     I'll  come 
To  you  ;  we  shall  be  more  secure  than  here. 

PEREDURE.  Come  quickly,  then,  or  I  shall  scarce 
believe 

But  I  have  slept  i'  the  moonlight  and  seen  visions. 
82 


— Yet  one  more  kiss,  as  sweet  as  the  perfume 
Of  sandal  burning  in  a  darkened  room  ! 
I  am  drunk  with  this  new  joy. 

MORGAUSE.  Within  two  hours. 

PEREDURE.  I  live  not  till  you  come. 

MORGAUSE.  Oh,  leave  me,  leave  me ! 

You  will  be  found.     Farewell ! 

PEREDURE.  Love,  love  !    [Exit.'] 

MORGAUSE.  This  key 

Shall  unlock  more  secrets  than  a  secret  door. 

[LADINAS  climbs  up  from  below  with  a  lute. 
The  scene  closes :] 


SCENE    II. — A   street   in    Camelot.      Enter    THE 
WATCH. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  I  say  it  and  I  say  it  again, 
that  the  King  hath  the  strongest  arm  in  the  king 
dom. 

SECOND  WATCHMAN.  Not  a  doubt  of  that ! 

THIRD  WATCHMAN.  Our  King  be  a  powerful 
fighter. 

83 


FOURTH  WATCHMAN.  Not  but  I  think  our  Owen, 
the  blacksmith,  would  run  him  hard. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Oh,  you  think,  do  you? 
You're  a  fine  one  to  think.  Owen,  the  blacksmith  ! 

THIRD  WATCHMAN.  They  as  thinks,  goes  to 
hell ;  leastwise  Father  Aurelian  says  so. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Owen,  the  blacksmith ! 

FOURTH  WATCHMAN.  Well,  I  suppose  a  black 
smith  may  have  muscle  in  his  arm,  as  well  as  a 
king. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Ah,  there  you  goes  a-sup- 
posing.  The  King,  sir,  is  the  King,  and  is  not  to 
be  supposed. 

THIRD  WATCHMAN.  Ay,  'tis  a  hanging  matter  to 
suppose  the  King — except  for  the  Pope.  The  Pope 
can  suppose  anything. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  You  go  too  much  to  the 
priests,  David.  Father  Aurelian  knows  not  every 
thing,  though  I  will  not  deny  that  he  can  say  mass 
quicker  than  any  priest  in  Camelot.  The  Pope  can 
not  touch  the  King  except  in  the  way  of  cursing, 
and  it's  not  likely  the  Holy  Father  would  curse  any 
body — unless  he  were  mightily  provoked. 
84 


SECOND  WATCHMAN.  That's  true,  neighbor. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  The  King  is  the  head  in 
things  temporary,  and  the  Pope  in  things  spirit 
uous. 

SECOND  WATCHMAN.  And  that's  true,  too. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  And  I  say  again,  the  King  is 
the  strongest  man  in  the  kingdom.  Before  he  was 
crowned,  he  pulled  the  great  sword  out  o'  the  stone 
at  Canterbury,  where  it  was  fast  stuck,  so  that  all 
the  nobles  in  Britain  had  tugged  away  at  it  and 
none  o'  them  so  much  as  budged  it.  And  they  say 
the  devil  put  it  there,  but  that  is  not  likely,  for  the 
Archbishop  said  that  whoever  should  pull  it  out 
should  be  king,  and  it's  not  to  be  believed  that  the 
Archbishop  would  meddle  with  the  devil.  Well,  at 
last  the  King  came,  but  he  was  not  King  then, 
but  no  matter  for  that ;  and  he  heaved  away  at  it 
and  out  it  came  so  sudden  that  away  went  His 
Majesty  heels  over  head  backward  and  was  near 
to  break  's  neck.  And  they  call  the  place  Arthur's 
Feat  to  this  day,  because  there  Arthur  lost  his 
feet.  And  I  say,  the  King  is  the  strongest  man  in 

Britain. 

8s 


THIRD  WATCHMAN.  But  that  was  a  magic 
sword  ;  it  vanished  afterward. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Magic !  Poh,  David,  you'll 
believe  anything. 

THIRD  WATCHMAN.  If  it  did  not  vanish,  where 
is  it  now  ?  Answer  me  that. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Masters,  we  are  set  here  to 
apprehend  benefactors.  But  I  take  it  that  no  bene 
factors  will  be  in  the  street  at  this  hour,  for  there  is 
a  law  that  no  one  be  abroad  after  nine  o'  the  clock 
but  the  King's  watch.  Let  us  go  into  Master  How- 
ell's  tavern.  If  there  be  any  benefactors  they  will 
be  there. 

FOURTH  WATCHMAN.  Ay,  we'll  go  have  a  pot  of 
ale.  But  we  must  come  back  anon,  for  there  might 
be  honest  men  abroad. 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Truly,  and  if  any  honest 
men  be  stirring,  they  will  take  it  ill  that  the  watch 
be  not  by  to  protect  them. 

THIRD  WATCHMAN.  But  'tis  against  the  law  to 
be  out  at  this  time  o'  the  night ;  and  can  a  man  be  a 
true  man  and  break  the  law  ? 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.    In  a  case  of  necessity  he 

86 


may,  for  necessity  knows  no  law.  And  I  feel 
myself  a  pressing  necessity  now  for  strong  waters. 
Come,  masters.  [Exeunt.'] 

[Enter  GUENEVERE,  disguised  as  a  Page,  and  GAL- 

AHAULT.] 

GUENEVERE.  Pray,  how  much  farther  is  it  ?     We 

have  come 
A  long  way  from  the  palace. 

GALAHAULT.  We  have  but 

To  cross  the  little  bridge  beyond  and  pass 
Under  the  row  of  willows  to  the  left, 
And  we  are  there.     It  is  a  place  I  built 
Some  years  ago  when  I  had  use  for  it. 
But  now  the  flowers  have  sown  themselves  at  will 
And  the  wild  vines,  untrimmed,  have  overflowed 
The  trellises  and  run  along  the  ground, 
Tangled  with  violets,  and  hollyhocks 
Start  straight  and  sudden  in  the  very  walks. 
The  simple  people  of  the  neighborhood 
Say  it  is  haunted,  having  no  way  else 
To  explain  infrequent  lights  and  seldom  signs 

Of  habitation  in  such  solitude. 
87 


Yet  though  it  has  a  barbarous  outside, 

You'll  find  within  that  all  has  been  made  ready 

Even  for  a  queen's  sojourn. 

GUENEVERE.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

How  looked  he  when  you  left  him  ? 

GALAHAULT.  Why,  as  one 

Who  is  about  to  die  and  has  seen  heaven 
Opening  before  him. 

GUENEVERE.  But  did  he  send  no  word  ? 

Oh,  pardon  me,  I  have  lost  all  my  pride, 
And  I  must  hear  you  speak  of  him. 

WATCH  \within] .  Ho,  there ! 

GALAHAULT.  Stand  close,  it  is  the  watch ; — and 

speak  no  word, 
But  keep  your  face  in  shadow. 

[Enter  the  WATCH.] 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Stand  all  together  that  they 
may  not  rush  upon  us  suddenly  and  overpower  us. 
— Who  goes  there  ? 

GALAHAULT.  What,  old  Griffith !  What  do  you 
mean,  you  old  oracle  ?  Do  you  forget  me  ? 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.    Bless   us,  masters,  if  it  be 

88 


not  the  Prince  !  I  hope  your  Highness  will  pardon 
me.  Now  who'd  a-thought  't  't  would  a-been  your 
Highness  ?  Ah,  your  Highness  knows  what's  what, 
a-going  about  in  the  night,  when  all  honest  folk  is 
a-bed.  But  it's  not  for  me  to  say  when  your  High 
ness  should  go  in  or  come  out.  And  I  hope  your 
Highness  will  not  forget  the  watch. 

GALAHAULT  [throwing purse].  Drink  my  health, 
Griffith, — you  and  your  fellows.  And  if  you  get 
very  drunk,  I'll  see  you  are  none  the  worse  for  it, 
Come,  boy. 

[Exeunt  GALAHAULT  and  GUENEVERE.] 

SECOND  WATCHMAN.  What  did  he  give  you  ? 

FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Gold  !  Ah,  there's  a  prince 
for  you,  he  is !  I  have  carried  him  home  drunk 
these  many  times.  He  knows  what  belongs  to  a 
gentleman.  And  did  you  hear  what  he  called  me  ? 
An  oracle.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  a  man  of 
parts.  Mark  Antony  was  an  oracle — he  that  killed 
Caesar  in  the  play.  He  killed  him  oracularly. 

FOURTH  WATCHMAN.  Not  a  one  of  you  had 
come  back  but  for  me.  You  were  so  thirsty  you 
could  see  naught  but  the  tavern  window. 


FIRST  WATCHMAN.  Never  you  mind.  We'll 
have  a  drink  now  as  is  a  drink — and  none  the  worse 
for  waiting  and  letting  our  mouths  water.  [Exeunt.] 


SCENE  III.  —  Merlin's    Tower.      MERLIN.     Enter 
DAGONET,  unperceived. 

MERLIN.    Burn,  burn,  ye  leaping  flames!    And 

yet  in  vain. 

Ye  cannot  burn  away  the  prison-bars 
That  gaol  my  soul  from  knowledge.     Yet  burn  on  ; 
A  little  and  a  little  still  I  learn. 
Yet  all  the  knowledge  man  can  win  avails 
But  to  avoid  the  shock  of  mighty  forces 
Which  he  can  neither  deviate  nor  control. 
I  look  out  on  the  rushing  of  the  world 
As  one  who  sees  the  gloom  of  swirling  waters 
In  the  abyss  of  midnight.     On  they  sweep, 
Fatal,  resistless,  plunging  as  one  mass 
From  turbulence  to  booming  turbulence. 
Whence  ?   Whither  ?  Ye  occult  unconscious  Powers  \ 
How  shall  I  call  upon  you  ?     By  what  names  ? 

What  incantations  ? — Fool,  what  do  you  here  ? 

90 


DAGONET.  Father  Merlin,  when  will  the  devils 
appear  ? 

MERLIN.  What  mean  you,  Fool  ? 

DAGONET.  Were  you  not  conjuring  ?  I  cry  you 
mercy,  I  thought  it  was  an  invocation  to  Flibberti 
gibbet.  Sir  Kaye  says  that  Asmodeus  was  your 
father,  but  the  Devil  himself  will  be  saved  ere  his 
wits  stop  leaking. 

MERLIN.  I  do  not  take  that.  How  should  his 
wits  leak  ? 

DAGONET.  Marry,  I  am  sure  his  brain's  cracked. 
He  put  me  in  the  pillory  the  other  day  for  making 
a  jest  that  passed  his  understanding,  but  he  will  be 
pilloried  with  my  jest  long  after  I  have  ceased  jest 
ing  with  his  pillory. 

MERLIN.  What,  were  you  in  the  pillory,  Dagonet  ? 

DAGONET.  Long  enough  to  feel  an  imaginary  ruff 
about  my  neck  still.  But  by  the  intercession  of  the 
Queen,  I  was  delivered.  I  hope  her  issue  may  be 
nobler. 

MERLIN.  Her  issue  ?  Where  is  the  sequence  in 
this? 

DAGONET.  That  if  her  issue  be  no  nobler  than 


mine,  it  will  be  something  scrofulous,  for  I  was  de 
livered  of  a  galled  neck.  Father  Merlin,  can  you 
undo  a  spell  as  well  as  contrive  one  ? 

MERLIN.  Why,  Fool? 

DAGONET.  The  Prince  of  Cameliard  is  be 
witched  ;  he  does  nothing  but  sigh. 

MERLIN.  Why,  you  should  be  the  physician  to 
heal  him  of  that  ailment.  For  what  purpose  else 
does  the  King  keep  you  ? 

DAGONET.  Nay,  the  jester  is  a  physician  that 
heals  none  but  the  well.  The  sick  will  have  none  of 
him,  neither  the  sick  in  body  nor  in  wit  nor  in 
heart ;  for  the  sick  in  their  bodies  desire  the  sympa 
thy  of  long  faces  ;  and  the  sick  in  their  wits  think 
they  are  mocked,  because  they  do  not  understand 
what  is  said ;  and  the  sick  in  their  hearts  speak 
another  language — laughter  is  bitterness  to  them 
and  their  recreation  is  in  groans.  And  Prince  Pere- 
dure  is  in  the  third  of  these  categories, — he  is  in 
love.  Indeed,  Father  Merlin,  he  is  past  my  medi- 
cining,  arid  I  would  you  would  cure  him. 

MERLIN.  Would  you  have  me  cure  youth  of  love  ? 
Then  I  were  a  magician  indeed. 


And  yet  I  know,  in  part,  of  what  you  speak  ; 

And  I  would  counsel  you,  good  Dagonet, 

To  have  an  eye  upon  the  Queen  of  Orkney. 

She  works  with  devious  indirections,  and 

This  love  of  Peredure  may  be  to  her 

A  point  to  rest  the  lever  on,  wherewith 

She  pries  at  greater  matters.     Come  with  me  ; 

I  have  employment  for  you.     'T  works  so,  does  't  ? 

Fate  lays  on  her  a  bitter-hearted  life  ; 

Even  as  long  ago  I  prophesied 

That  woe  should  whelm  her  past  all  woman's  woe 

And  woe  past  woman's  from  her  heart  should  flow 

To  whelm  the  world —  and  Time  unwinds  it  so. 

[Exeunt,] 


SCENE  IV. — A  forsaken  garden.    LAUNCELOT. 

LAUNCELOT.     It  is  the  hour  ;  and  yet  they  do  not 

come. 

The  sentinels  grow  drowsy  at  their  posts  ; 
And  the  wind  rustles  through  the  moonlit  leaves 
Like  one  that  tosses  on  a  sleepless  bed 
And  wishes  for  the  dawn.     The  shadows  sleep, 

93 


Silent  as  time,  beneath  the  silent  stars  ; 

And  distant  dogs  behowl  the  loneliness. 

O  Moon,  look  down  and  lead  my  love  to  me  !    .    .    . 

Sir  Galahault  !  Sir  Galahault !  I  wonder 

If  it  were  wise  to  trust  to  you  so  far. 

Nay,  't  is  unknightly  in  me  to  misdoubt 

So  true  a  heart.     Who  else  but  he  had  made 

The  evil  fortune  of  my  love  his  own 

And  dared  for  me  all  I  myself  can  dare  ? 

And  yet  to  take  my  joy  within  his  doors, 

With  secret  entrance  like  a  midnight  thief, — 

It  irks  me.     Bah,  I  am  a  fool !     What's  place 

Or  time,  when  I  clasp  hands  with  Guenevere  ? 

To  look  into  her  eyes  is  to  forget 

That  space  exists,  beyond  her  circling  arms ! 

Hark  !  did  I  hear  the  rustle  of  a  cloak  ? 

Or  was  't  the  wind  i'  the  lilacs  ? 

[Enter  GALAHAULT.] 

Galahault ! 
Alone  ? 

GALAHAULT.    Are  you  alone  ?    And  is  all  safe  ? 
For  what  I  bring  with  me  is  worth  all  Britain. 
LAUNCELOT.    All  Britain  ?    All  the  world ! 


[Enter  GUENEVERE.] 

My  queen  !  my  queen  ! 

GUENEVERE.  Sir  Galahault,  needs  must  that  once 

you  loved. 

'T  is  some  lost  lady's  memory,  sure,  that  stirs 
Your  will  to  do  these  gentle  deeds. 

GALAHAULT.  I  know 

Love  is  the  one  intelligible  word 
Life  utters. — But  I  pray  you,  pardon  me     [smiling], 
I  know,  besides,  that  though  you  throw  an  alms 
Of  kind  thoughts  to  a  man  whose  life  is  lived, 
The  fleet-foot  hours  are  restless  to  become 
Spendthrift  of  richer  treasure.     Fare  you  well ! 
I  will  not  irk  you  with  a  formal  leave.  \Exit^\ 

GUENEVERE.    Now ! 

LAUNCELOT.     Heart  to  heart ! 

GUENEVERE.  Oh,  do  not  jar  with  speech 

This  perfect  chord  of  silence  ! — Nay,  there  needs 
Thy  throat's  deep  music.     Let  thy  lips  drop  words, 
Like  pearls,  between  thy  kisses. 

LAUNCELOT.  Thy  speech  breaks 

Against  the  interruption  of  my  lips, 

95 


Like  the  low  laughter  of  a  summer  brook 
Over  perpetual  pebbles. 

GUENEVERE.  Nay  but,  love, 

It  is  the  saucy  pebbles  that  provoke 
The    brook's    discourse ;     for,    where    the  bed   is 

smooth, 

The  waters  glide  as  silent  as  a  Dryad 
That  disappears  among  the  silent  trees. 

LAUNCELOT.    And  so  our  kisses  still  provoke  our 

speech. 
GUENEVERE.    Why,  if  the  night  must  first    be 

smooth  of  kisses, 

I  fear  that  I  shall  talk  until  the  dawn. 
LAUNCELOT.    Alas,    that    dawn    should    be   so 

soon ! 

GUENEVERE.  We  will 

Divide  each  moment  in  a  thousand  parts, 
And  every  part  a  pearl ;  and  they  shall  make 
A  rosary  of  little  lucent  globes, 
Innumerous  as  the  dewdrops  of  the  dawn  : 
And,  counting  them,  night  shall  seem  infinite. 
LAUNCELOT.     Yet  even  now  we  count  them,  and 
they  pass. 

96 


Sit,  Guenevere,  here  where  the  moonlight  laughs 
Across    your    hair,     and     the     night    wind    may 

touch 
Your  throat  and  chin,  as  I  do  now. 

GUENEVERE.  O  love, 

My  lips  will  weary  you,  too  often  kissed. 

LAUNCELOT.     Why,  then  the  night  will  weary  of 

the  moon. 
GUENEVERE.    But  I'll  be  strange  and  chide  ;  and 

then  a  cloud 
Will  pass  between  you  and  the  moon. 

LAUNCELOT.  Nay,  then 

The  moon  will  'broider  with  her  light  the  cloud, — 
And  I  will  kiss  again,  to  hear  your  chiding. 

GUENEVERE.   My  voice  will  weary  you,  too  rarely 

still. 
LAUNCELOT.   Then  will  the  leaves  grow  weary  of 

the  wind. — 

Hark,  how  they  laugh  into  each  other's  ears 
And  whisper  secrets  for  pure  merriment ! 

GUENEVERE.     My  love  will  weary  you,  too  un 
disguised, 
Too  wild,  too  headlong,  too  unlimited ! 

7  97 


LAUNCELOT.    Then  God  will  weary  of  the  joy  of 

heaven ! 

O  love,  in  whom  even  Love's  perversity 
Is  lovely  !     O  chameleon-colored  heart ! 
Look,  I  have  seen  a  sky  at  sunset  lapse 
From  gold  and  flame  to  misted  violet 
And  through  a  thousand  shifting  colors  more, 
Olive  and  pearl  and  myriad  hues  of  rose, 
Each  lovelier  than  the  last.     Even  such  a  sky 
Thy  heart  is. 

GUENEVERE.     Then    must    thou    be    like    the 

sun, 

For  from  his  kiss  the  sky  takes  on  her  hue. 
And  surely,  if  the  sun  took  human  shape, 
He  would  become  even  such  a  man  as  thou, 
My  live  Apollo  !     Spendthrift  of  thy  brightness  ! 
— Nay,  let  us  stay  awhile  yet,  for  the  night 
Doth  seem  attuned  to  our  hearts  and  they 
Incorporate  with  the  night.     Was  e'er  before 
Such  rapture  in  the  air? 

LAUNCELOT.  O  teasing  Queen  ! 

You  slip  through  my  desires  and  glide  away 

As  a  seal  swims.     Ah,  why  will  you  be  coy  ? 
98 


Yet  coy  or  bold,  each  shifting  mood  you  wear 
More  than  the  last  entrains. 

GUENEVERE.  I  give  you  all ; 

I  am  no  niggard  to  keep  something  back. 
But  yet,  I  pray  you,  stay  a  little  while. 
There  is  a  sweetness  in  all  things  that  pass  ; 
We  love  the  moonlight  better  for  the  sun, 
And  the  day  better  when  the  night  is  near ; 
The  last  look  on  a  place  where  we  have  dwelt 
Reveals  more  beauty  than  we  dreamed  before, 
When  it  was  daily.     This  is  my  last  hour 
Of  girlhood  ;  and,  although  the  wider  days 
Bring  greater  guerdons  and  more  large  delights, 
Yet  this  one  thing  they  shall  not  bring  again. 
Love,  yet  a  little  while  ! 

LAUNCELOT.  Your  girlhood,  say  you  ? 

GUENEVERE.     I  know  not  how  to  tell  you  — 
The      morn      that      followed      on      my      wedding 

night, 
War  called  the    King    to    Cornwall,  —  since  which 

hour 
I  have  not  seen  him.  —  That  one  night,  indeed, 

99    » 


We  lay  down  side  by  side  ; — but,  seeing  I  shrank 
And    shook    as    one     that    fears    she    knows    not 

what, 

The  King  unsheathed  his  sword  Excalibur 
And  placed  it  for  a  sign  between  us  twain, 
— And  all  night  long  the  sword  divided  us, 

LAUNCELOT.  Mine,  mine,  all  mine ! 

GUENEVERE.  All  thine,  my  Launcelot, 

Body  and  soul !     My  husband ! 

LAUNCELOT.  Ay,  dear  wife, 

Although  the  cowled  monastic  trees  have  been 
The  only  priests  of  our  great  bridal. 

GUENEVERE.  Husband ! 

I  laugh  into  your  hair  with  the  mere  joy 
Of  saying  it  over  so.     ...     The  wicked  stars 
Are  twinkling  with  a  mischievous  delight 
To  spy  on  us. 

LAUNCELOT.  Then  are  they  like  you  now, 
The  roguery  of  heaven.     Anon,  you'll  change 
And  be  its  splendor  and  its  mystery. 
Let  us  go  in  ;  I  have  seen  you  as  a  vision 
Of  morning  in  the  hills,  and  as  a  Queen, 
And  as  the  dainty  mimicry  of  a  boy  ; 


But  I  would  see  you  grand  and  undisguised 
And  clothed  upon  with  moonlight  and  sweet  air. 

[They  enter  the  house.  Then  all  is  silent,  save 
for  a  rustle  of  wind  in  the  leaves  and  the 
voice  of  a  distant  'watchman,  calling  the 
hour.  A  nightingale  begins  to  sing  in  the 
thicket.'} 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — The  Same.     Enter    LAUNCELOT    and 

GUENEVERE. 

LAUNCELOT.  It  is  the  morning  star  that  hangs  so 

high; 
Love,  you  must  leave  me. 

GUENEVERE.  Must  I  so  indeed  ? 

How  can  I  leave  you  ? — For  I  live  in  you. 
You  are  the  only  concord  in  my  life ; 
Without  you  I  am  but  a  jarring  note 
And  all  the  world  mere  noise. 

LAUNCELOT.  No,  leave  me  not. 

"What  though  the  world  outcast  us  !     We  will  be 
A  world  unto  ourselves.     Let  Britain  sink 
Beneath  the  Atlantic  and  the  solid  base 
And  universal  dome  of  things  dissolve 
And  like  the  architecture  of  a  cloud 
Melt  in  the  blue  inane  !     You  are  my  country, 
My  world,  my  faith,  my  rounded  orb  of  life. 


GUENEVERE.    Without  you  life   would    be    but 
breathing  death. 

LAUNCELOT.  Oh,  we  will  find  some  island  in  the 

seas, 

Some  place  forsaken  of  the  unjust  world, 
A  larger  image  of  this  garden  here, 
Where  nature's  luxury  and  Art's  decay 
Proclaim  emancipation 

GUENEVERE.  There's  no  such  place. 

The  greedy  world  would  rush  in  at  your  heels 
And  turn  your  paradise  into  a  mart. 
Nay,  you  were  right,  and  1  must  leave  you,  love, 
And  ere  yon  pale  streaks  ripen  into  rose, 
Resume  the  Queen.     But  yet  one  breath  beneath 
These  morning-cool  old  elms  before  we  part, 
One  last  love-dreaming  ! — How  can  I  be  sure 
Thou  lovest  me  ?     Is  life  so  generous 
Of  joy  ? 

LAUNCELOT.      Oh,  look  in  my  true  eyes  and 

say 
If  thou  canst  doubt  me ! 

GUENEVERE.  Nay,  I  doubt  thee  not. 

If  I  had  doubted,  could  I  thus  have  stolen 
103 


At  midnight  in  a  shameless  page's  suit 
And — oh,  thou  knowest  I  could  not ! 

LAUNCELOT.  Sweet  and  true  ! 

GUENEVERE.     I  feel  as  if  I  had  put  off  the  Queen 
With  the  Queen's  robes  and  had  become  your  page. 

LAUNCELOT.     You  are  my  Queen,  whatever  garb 

you  wear, 

And  I  your  knight  forever.     But,  thus  clad, 
A  thousand  beauties  are  revealed,  before 
Known  only  to  surmise,  or  by  foreknowledge 
That  every  beauty  must  be  yours  divined. 
Ay,  cover  't  with  thy  cloak !     The  prettiness 
O'  the  action  o'er-repays  my  beggared  eyes, 
Robbed  of  the  treasure  of  that  loveliness. 

GUENEVERE.     For  thy  delight,  love,  I  will  dress 

me  so 

Ten  times  a  day — but  never  as  a  mask 
Again.     Why  wouldst  thou  send  Sir  Galahault 
To  bring  me  here  ? 

LAUNCELOT.          For  thy  security. 
Here  we  are  free  from  Argus-eyed  intrigue. 

GUENEVERE.     I  like  it  not — or  rather  would  not 
like  it, 


Were  I  not  too  content  to  let  my  head 

Lie  on  your  shoulder  here — so — while  Time  seems 

To  pause  awhile  and  dream,  beholding  us. 

It  is  too  much  as  if  we  shrank  some  peril ; 

And  I  would  shrink  from  nothing.     Prithee,  love, 

Henceforward  let  us  meet  without  these  shifts. 

LAUNCELOT.    O  royal-hearted  ! 

GUENEVERE.  Sweet,  you  hurt  me. 

LAUNCELOT.  Nay, 

I  would  not  hurt  you.     I  would  have  my  love 
A  furnace  fiery  as  the  orient  king's, 
But  you  should  walk  in  it  and  be  unharmed. 

GUENEVERE.     Was  ever  woman  loved  as  you  love 
me  ? 

LAUNCELOT.     I  think  there  never  was  ;  't  is  some 
thing  new 
Whereof  I  am  discoverer.     [Exeunt  among  the  trees.} 


SCENE  II. —  The  adjacent  country.     Before  the  tent 
of  Arthur.     ARTHUR  and  GODMAR. 

GODMAR.     Sire  ! 

ARTHUR.  What  is  it,  Godmar  ? 


GODMAR.  From  the  crest 

Of  yonder  hill  one  can  see  Camelot. 

ARTHUR.     A  forced  march  would  have  brought  us 

there  to-day  ; 
But  to  what  end  ?     The  soldiers  are  fatigued. 

GODMAR.     Sire,  we  have  marched  but  fifteen  miles 

to-day. 

We  started  late  and  are  already  camped 
While  it  is  hardly  afternoon.     Besides, 
The  camp  is  careless  as  a  hunt. 

ARTHUR.  What  then  ? 

GODMAR.     You  will  destroy  all  discipline. 

ARTHUR.  No,  Godmar. 

They  have  earned  a  little  ease  ;  let  them  enjoy  it. 
For  tension  unrelieved  relieves  itself 
And  is  ne'er  taut  again.     Let  them  have  time 
To  talk  and  tell  old  stories  in  their  tents 
And  they'll  forget  their  hardships,  and  each  soldier 
Will  presently  begin  to  find  himself 
Of  moment  to  the  State,  no  mere  machine 
Useful  and  used  as  bows  and  catapults, 
But  personal  ;  and  Britain  thus  will  grow 
A  thing  wherein  he  hath  a  stake  himself, 

106 


And  he  will  fight  the  better  and  submit 
More  willing  to  her  rule  in  that  his  will 
By  head  and  heart  alike  is  reinforced. 
Have  couriers  been  sent  forward  ? 
[Enter  MERLIN.] 

GODMAR.  One  at  dawn 

And  one  when  we  encamped. 

ARTHUR.  How  earnest  thou  here  ? 

MERLIN.     On  no  enchanted  steed  ;  a  plain  mule 

brought  me. 

I  set  out  when  your  messenger  arrived 
This  morning.     I  have  tidings  you  must  hear 
Before  your  entry. 

ARTHUR.  Well. 

MERLIN.  The  Emperor 

Has  sent  a  special  envoy  to  your  court, 
Whose  undivulged  commission,  though  with  care 
And  shrewdly  hid,  I  have  smelled  out.     In  brief, 
Rome  sends  to  bully  you  with  warlike  threats 
To  pay  the  tribute. 

ARTHUR.  You  are  my  counsellors  ; 

What  are  your  minds  on  this  ? 

GODMAR.  I  am  for  war. 

107 


Here  is  occasion  for  new  victories 

And  a  world-wider  glory.     For  my  part, 

I  think  that  peace  is  when  the  nation  sleeps 

And  when  it  wakes,  that's  war.     For  men  in  peace, 

Lacking  brave  emulation  and  the  zeal 

Of  a  great  cause,  fall  to  their  petty  ends 

And,  letting  their  high  virtues  atrophy, 

Wallow  in  lust  and  avarice,  till  the  heart 

And  nobler  functions1  rot  away  and  leave 

A  people  like  an  oyster,  all  stomach. 

Our  men  are  bold  with  long  success,  valiant, 

Well-disciplined,  far  better  warriors 

Than  Roman  libertines,  and  mercenaries 

That  fight  with  half  their  hearts.     The  cause  is  just ; 

For  while  Rome  kept  her  legions  in  the  land, 

Defending  us  from  the  sea-robbing  Jutes 

And  Saxons  and  against  the  mountain  hordes 

Of  barbarous  Picts,  there  was  a  show  of  reason 

Why  she  should  tax  us  ;  now  we  stand  alone 

And  ask  and  yield  no  favors. 

MERLIN.  Nor  would  I 

Advise  your  Majesty  to  yield  an  inch 
To  this  preposterous  impudence.     And  yet 

108 


Delay  advantages  the  crescent  power, 
And  we  are  growing  stronger  every  year 
And  Rome  declining.     If  we  match  her  now, 
Ere  long  we'll  have  the  odds.    Her  boundless  wealth 
Gives  her  resources  which  our  general 
Too  lightly  weighs.     Nor  should  we  overrate 
Our  own  security.     We  are  one  in  rule 
But  not  in  spirit  yet,  and  local  feeling 
Still  outruns  national.     The  Jutes  in  Kent 
Are  yet  a  daily  threat.     Therefore,  my  liege, 
My  counsel  is  that  we  meet  words  with  words, 
Gain  time  to  expel  the  aliens  from  our  shores 
And  discord  from  our  hearts.     Indeed  I  think 
The  glory  of  your  reign  will  more  consist 
In  leaving  to  the  world  a  living  State 
Than  in  your  victories.    And  what  most  imports  you 
Is  to  secure  by  wise  executive 
The  unity  and  welfare  of  the  realm. 
ARTHUR.     You  have  each  spoken  well,  but  I  in 
cline 

To  Godmar's  thought.     You,  Merlin,  know  full  well 
The  unity  of  Britain  is  the  heart 

And  purpose  of  my  life  ;  but  I  conceive 
109 


This  war  will  make  the  country  more  at  one 
Than  all  our  statecraft,  for  old  enmities 
Will  melt  away  into  one  common  heart 
When  Britons  fight  against  a  common  foe. 
Besides,  you  shall  yourself  be  deputy 
At  Camelot,  and  our  home  management 
Shall  be  no  loser.     For  the  Jutes  in  Kent, 
We'll  make  them  our  allies,  confirm  their  lands 
In  fealty  to  ourself  and  win  them  over 
With  promises  o'  the  richer  spoils  of  Rome. 
For  I  intend  to  sack  her  opulent  towns 
And  pay  my  soldiers  from  their  treasuries  ; 
And  this  sea-people  will  supply  me  ships 
And  sailors  cunning  in  sea-faring  war. 
And,  more  than  this,  I  have  ancestral  claims 
To  the  imperial  crown.     We'll  not  return 
Until  the  Pope  has  crowned  me  Emperor. 

GODMAR.    No  man  on  earth  save  Arthur,  King  of 

Britain, 
Could  wield  so  glorious  an  enterprise. 

ARTHUR.     What  say  you,  Merlin? 

MERLIN.  'T  is  a  noble  plan, 

Better  than  mine  though  something  hazardous, 


And  for  a  lesser  captain  foolhardy. 

And  yet  it  has  a  weakness,  for  I  fear 

The  greatening  power  and  riches  of  the  Jutes. 

If  Britain  ever  fall,  't  will  be  by  them. 

ARTHUR.  They  are  too  dangerous  to  be  enemies; 
They  must  be  friends. 

MERLIN.  My  liege,  a  word  with  you 

In  private. 

GODMAR.     Sire,  permit  that  I  withdraw.     [Exit.} 

ARTHUR.     What  bitter  news  now,  Merlin  ? 

MERLIN.  Be  prepared 

For  any  unexpected  blow  you  will. 
I  fear  your  sister  has  some  plot  in  hand 
Which  I  have  not  unravelled. 

ARTHUR.  Morgause  again  ! 

I  have  a  senseless  superstitious  dread 
That  from  her  comes  my  ruin  ; — but  that's  a  dream. 
I'll  not  be  goblin-ridden.     Come  within 
The  tent  and  tell  me  more  of  your  suspicion. 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE  III. —  Camelot.  Night.  The  Gardens. 
Through  the  trees  the  towers  and  battlements. 
Enter  MORGAUSE  and  LADINAS  from  opposite 
sides,  meeting. 

MORGAUSE.    Well  ? 

LADINAS.  I  have  seen  them. 

MORGAUSE.  Seen  them  ? 

LADINAS.  From  the  arbor 

I  watched  them  as  they  strolled ;  yet  too  far  off 
To  hear  their    words — and  yet  their   words    were 

sweet. 

I  could  tell  that  although  I  heard  them  not, 
They  leaned  so  to  each  other,  like  a  pair 
Of  rutting  deer  that  rub  their  heads  together 
Before  they  couple.     What  they  said,  no  doubt, 
Had  made  a  pretty  song  for  the  King's  ear, 
Could  it  have  been  re-worded. 

MORGAUSE.  Was  this  all 

You  saw  ? 

LADINAS.     Be  patient.     I  have  not  done  yet. 
I  saw  them  kiss — and  Launcelot  looked  about 


With  guilty  fear,  but  Guenevere  looked  not 
But  hung  upon  him  motionless  and  dumb, 
Reckless  of  all  the  world.     Much  more  I  saw, 
But  to  be  brief — at  last,  after  what  words 
I  know  not,  they  departed,  she  with  head 
Erect,  poised  firmly  on  her  royal  throat, 
But  he  with  wild  eyes  and  a  haggard  face. 
I  followed  them.     They  went  in  by  the  wicket 
O'  the  private  stairway  of  the  Queen's  apartments. 

MORGAUSE.     What  say  you  ?     In  broad  noon  ? 

LADINAS.  Ay,  in  broad  noon. 

At  least,  she  sins  with  royal  carelessness. 

MORGAUSE.     Her  royal  carelessness !     Her  royal 

throat ! 

Is  she  the  only  queen,  then,  in  the  world  ? 
Doth    she    bewitch    you,    too  ?       Where    got    she 

drugs 

To  make  men  love  her  ?     Do  you  find  her  fairer  ? 
Beware,  La  Rouse  !     You  know  how  I  can  hate. 

LADINAS.     Fairer  ?    There  are  three  fair  ladies 

in  the  world, 

Iseult  of  Ireland,  Guenevere,  and  thou — 
And  thou  art  first  among  them.     I  will  not 


Deny  how  beautiful  she  is,  my  queen — 
Thou  art  the  fairer  that  she  is  so  fair. 

MORGAUSE.     Leave  courtly  phrases  till  another 

time. 

What  did  you  when  her  royalty  had  passed 
Into  the  palace  ? 

LADINAS.  I  bethought  me  then 

Of  Peredure's  apartments  and  the  key. 
I  had  no  thought  to  find  an  use  so  soon 
For  that — love-trinket.     I  ensconced  myself       • 
Behind  a  pillar  in  the  gallery 
That  overlooks  the  window  of  the  Queen, — 

MORGAUSE.    And  there  you  saw ? 

LADINAS.  Enough  !     Not  all  I  would, — 

There  was  a  tantalizing  incompleteness 
In  what  I  saw  ;  something,  indeed,  as  when 
One  thinks  one  sees  more  than  one  really  does 
When  the  wind  frolics  with  the  petticoats. 
And  yet  I  saw  enough  to  make  the  Queen 
A  laughter  and  a  byword  to  the  world. 

MORGAUSE.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
So  then  my  virtuous  brother  will  receive 
A  douse  of  dirty  water  for  a  welcome, 


.When  he  returns  to-morrow  morn.     The  pomp 
Of  his  victorious  arms  will  only  serve 
To  pageant  out  his  shame. 

LADINAS.                              I  have  set  down 
A  formal  notice  with  the  Seneschal 
That  at  high  noon  to-morrow,  when  the  King 
Ascends  the  throne  in  the  Great  Hall  to  hear 
The  grievances  and  quarrels  of  his  knights 
And  render  justice,  I  shall  then  appear 
And  in  the  presence  of  the  court  "  impeach 
Guenevere,  Queen  of  Britain,  Sovran  ,Lady 
Of  the  Most  Knightly  and  Christian  Fellowship 
Of  the  Round  Table,  et  cetera,  of  treason 
To  the  most  gracious  person  of  the  King 
And  to  the  safety  of  the  realm,  in  living 
In  shameless  license  with  Sir  Launcelot ; 
And  also  I  impeach  for  the  same  cause 
Sir  Launcelot  du  Lac,  the  son  of  Ban " 

MORGAUSE.     Spare  me  the  legal  rigmarole.     By 

this, 
The  noise  is  bruited  over  the  whole  palace. 

LADINAS.  Be  sure  of  that ;  Sir  Kaye  will  never  keep 
So  rare  a  bit  of  scandal  to  himself. 


MORGAUSE.     Why,  then  we  have  won  the  throw. 

Oh,  Ladinas, 

You  have  done  that  to-day  that  shall  shake  thrones ! 
Launcelot  will  not  tamely  yield  himself; 
Still  less  will  he  sit  by  and  see  his  leman 
Dragged   from   him    to   the   stake.      This   work  of 

ours 

Casts  Britain  to  the  pit  for  the  beasts  of  war 
To    glut    their    bloodthirst    on.  —  What's    that    to 

us  ? 

This  upstart  Queen  and  that  false-hearted  prig 
Who  calls  himself  her  husband  and  my  brother — 
She    lied,    my  mother,   when    she    said    she    bore 

him  ! 

And,  if  he  be  her  husband,  what  proves  that 
But  that  he  is  a  perjurer? — If  she  'scape, 
He  may  be  slain  ;  and  if  they  live,  the  shame 
Will  daub  them  till  they  die.     In  any  case 
I 'have  revenge.     I  could  carouse  to-night 
Till  the  elves  s..artled  in  the  glens  to  hear 
The  echo  of  my  revelry.     Come,  kiss  me  ! 
Oh,  Ladinas,  I  am  drunk  with  merriment. 

Again  !  again  !     My  blood  is  flames  of  fire. 
1 16 


LADINAS.     Your  lips  burn  and  your  cheeks  are 

hot.     Morgause ! 
My  pantheress  !     My  splendid  devil ! 

[Enter  MERLIN.] 

MORGAUSE.  Beware ! 

MERLIN.     You  need  no  mock  propriety.     I  am 
Too  gray  for  envy  and  too  well  aware 
Of  what  you  do  for  this  play  of  concealment. 
And  other  things  I  know  ;  be  warned  in  time, — 
Let  your  intents  take  wing. 

MORGAUSE.  You  are  too  late. 

Go  to  Sir  Kaye  and  ask  the  news  of  him. 
I  do  not  fear  you,  Merlin. 

MERLIN.  Fear  you  God  ? 

MORGAUSE.     God  cheated  me — you  know  of  what 

I  speak. 
I  am  his  enemy  as  He  is  mine. 

[Exeunt  MORGAUSE  and  LADINAS.] 

DAGONET  [springing  up  from  behind  a  clump  of 

i 

bushes].  Poor  God  !  Oh,  Father  Merlin,  such  rogue 
ry  as  I  have  overheard  !  But  I  will  tell  you  anon, 
for  now  I  must  see  whither  they  are  going.  [Exit.] 


[Enter  KAYE,  GAWAINE,  and  PEREDURE.] 

KAYE.  It  is  even  as  I  tell  you,  gentlemen.  Sir 
Ladinas  has  accused  the  Queen  of  high  treason,  for 
amours  with  Sir  Launcelot. 

PEREDURE.    Impossible  !    He  dare  not. 

KAYE.  The  indictment  was  placed  in  my  hand 
not  above  an  hour  ago.  God  knows  how  't  will  all 
end. 

PEREDURE.    By  heaven,  he  is  not  chary  of  his 
life! 

GAWAINE.  I  say  't  is  an  outrage.  What  an  if  it 
were  true  ?  They  are  the  royalest  pair  in  Christen 
dom  ;  't  is  shameful  to  seek  to  dishonor  them. 

PEREDURE.    True?    Why,  you  lily-livered  boy, 

you  dare 

To  hint  it  ?     By  all  the  saints,  if  you  were  not 
Your  mother's  son,  that  word  had  been  your  last 

\A  light  appears  in  a  window  above.} 

GAWAINE.     I  pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  she  is  your 

sister. 
I  had  forgot  it.     But  I  mean  to  say 

118 


That,  were  Sir  Launcelot  guilty  twenty  times, 

He  doth  as  far  this  Ladinas  o'erpeer 

As  mountains  anthills.     Fie,  a  worm,  a  snail ! 

KAYE.     'T  is  most  deplorable.     Let  us  bring  the 

news 
To  Galahault  and  the  others. 

[Exeunt  KAYE  and  GAWAINE.] 

MERLIN.     Prince,  do  you  see  the  light  in  yonder 
casement  ? 

PEREDURE.    It  is  the  chamber  of  the  Queen  of 

Orkney. 
What  of  it  ? 

MERLIN.     Would  you  know  who  has  set  on 
This  foul  conspiracy  against  the  Queen, 
Make  you  that  light  your  searchlamp. 

PEREDURE.  What,  you  mean ? 

MERLIN.     I  mean  that  if  you  follow  up  my  clue 
To  thread  the  meaning  of  this  labyrinth, 
'T  will  draw  you,  like  a  moth,  into  that  flame. 
I  mean  that  in  that  dark  unriddled  heart 
That  beats  beneath  the  beauteous  breasts  of  Orkney, 
Lies  like  a  cancer  the  true  reason  why 
Your  sister's  fame  is  smirched. 


PEREDURE.  By  heaven,  't  is  false ! 

As  soon  the  rosy  labor  of  the  dawn 
Might   bring   forth   darkness.     Now,   by  all    hell's 

fiends 

Unless  I  meet  an  enemy  ere  long 
Beside  old  age  and  boyhood,  I  shall  break 
My  sword  against  the  senseless  stones  !  What,  she  ? 

MERLIN.    Alas,  I  pity  you,  but  truth  will  not ; 
It  is  the  truth.  [Exit,} 

PEREDURE.    By  the  five  wounds  of  Christ, 
It  is  the  foulest  lie  that  e'er  was  told. 
— Lamp  of  my  soul,  behind  yon  lattice  lies 
More  mystery,  more  beauty,  more  delight 
Than  grizzled  Merlin  with  his  lapse  of  years 
Has  ever  dreamed  of.     There  's  more  credit  writ 
In  thy  dear  smile  than  all  his  subtleties. 
Ah,  opal-hearted  !  now  she  doth  unclothe 
The  solemn  sweep  of  her  majestic  limbs, 
The  mystery  of  her  awful  loveliness  ; 
And  draws  the  curtains  of  her  couch  about  her 
As  some  earth-goddess  of  old  northern  tales 
Might  draw  the  heavy  drapery  of  the  night. 


[Enter  DAGONET.] 

DAGONET.  My  lord  ! — My  lord  ! — Even  her  case 
ment  throws  him  into  a  catalepsy.  "  Now  what  brew 
hath  the  witch  borrowed  from  Circe,  that  this  poor 
poet  should  be  transformed  into  an  ass  ?  What  ho, 
my  lord ! 

PEREDURE.    Is  it  you,  Dagonet  ? 

DAGONET.  Like  a  chair  in  a  dark  room ;  you  wish 
I  were  out  of  the  way.  (Aside).  Oh,  that  I  were  any 
thing  but  what  I  am,  the  bearer  of  ill  news  !  I  could 
wish  I  were  a  dog,  a  mongrelly  cur,  with  somebody 
kicking  me.  (Aloud.)  Are  you  brave,  my  lord  ? 

PEREDURE.    Brave  ? 

DAGONET.  I  know  you  are  as  quick  in  a  quarrel  as 
a  Spaniard,  and  will  whip  out  your  rapier  on  less  prov 
ocation  than  any  man  at  the  court.  But  are  you  brave  ? 

(Sings)     For  there  are  worser  ills  to  face 

Than  foemen  in  the  fray  ; 
And  many  a  man  has  fought  because — 
He  feared  to  run  away. 

Ri  fol  de  riddle  rol. 
Are  you  brave,  sir  ? 


PEREDURE.  Sure,  the  Fool's  mad.  Good  Dago- 
net,  I  am  not  in  the  humor  for  these  fopperies. 

DAGONET.  Said  I  not  that  I  was  in  the  way  ?  But, 
cry  you  mercy  now,  would  you  not  thank  even  a 
joint-stool,  if  barking  your  shins  against  it  saved  you 
from  a  stumble  into  the  kitchen  water-butt  ? 

PEREDURE.  Past  doubt,  Dagonet.  What  have  I 
to  do  with  this  ? 

DAGONET.  Prithee,  bark  your  shins  against  me, 
then,  and  save  yourself  from  drowning,  for  the  butt 
that  lies  in  your  path  is  bottomless. 

PEREDURE.  I  am  in  a  mood  to  be  exasperated  by 
trifles.  If  you  have  ought  to  me,  say  it ;  if  not,  pray 
leave  me  to  myself. 

DAGONET.  Indeed  I  have  something  to  say,  but 
I  know  not  rightly  how  to  go  about  it.  Sir,  you  are 
in  love 

PEREDURE.     Zounds ! 

DAGONET.  And  I  would  not  have  you  made  the 
tool  of  an  unworthy  woman. 

PEREDURE.  Why,  you  piebald  rascally  slave 

DAGONET.  Be  patient  with  me,  sir ;  and  if  I 
do  not  prove  your  love  a  lewd  trickster  and  trait- 


ress,  beat  me  from  here  to  Orkney  and  back 
again. 

PEREDURE.  Lewd  ?— traitress  ?— Oh,  Christ  in 
heaven  !  You  rogue  !  you  varlet !  do  you  dare ? 

DAGONET.  Hear  me,  for  I  swear  I  speak  no  more 
but  the  truth  !  Sir,  I  have  loved  you  since  you  were  a 
child  on  my  knee  and  used  to  play  with  my  bauble 
for  a  toy.  Do  you  think  I  would  tell  you  so  bitter  a 
thing  for  wantonness  ? 

PEREDURE.  Nay,  it  cannot  be  but  you  are 
abused  ;  some  villain,  some  scurvy  rancorous  vil 
lain  hath  abused  you — but 't  was  I  he  aimed  at  with 
his  knavery.  Who  was  it,  Dagonet  ?  Tell  me  and 
if  I  do  not  run  him  through  with  my  sword  as  I 

would  a  snake My  God,  if  I  do  not  find  some 

tangible  enemy,  I  shall  burst  my  heart. 

DAGONET.  An  I  thought  my  eyes  were  such  ras 
cals  as  you  have  called  them,  I  would  pluck  them 
out.  Oh,  my  lord,  tear  this  false  woman  out  of  your 
heart.  She  is  not  worthy  that  you  grieve  for  her. 

PEREDURE.  What,  will  you  persuade  me  the 
world's  a  madman's  dream  ?  have  a  care,  have  a 
care  !  I  grow  dangerous. 

"3 


DAGONET.     Come  with  me  and  see  for  yourself. 
I  would  I  could  not  show  you  what  I  must. 

PEREDURE.  Lead  on  ; — but  if  you  have  played  me 
false,  you  had  better  have  fallen  in  a  tiger's  jaws. 

DAGONET.     I  have  no  more  to  say.     If  you  will 
not  hear,  see. 

[Exeunt  DAGONET  and  PEREDURE.] 

[Enter  LAUNCELOT  and  GUENEVERE.] 

GUENEVERE.     I  know  that  we  must  take  up  the 

old  life 

Again,  made  harder  than  it  was  before 
But  sweeter  too.     And  yet  it  is  all  so  new, 
So  glad !     A  little  longer  we  will  dream. 
To-day  we  will  not  think  of  anything 
But  the  dear  joy  of  loving. 

LAUNCELOT.  The  kind  Fates 

Have  given  to  us  this  hour.     We  will  not  mar  it. 
To-morrow's  riddles  let  to-morrow  solve. 

GUENEVERE.     I  am  so  glad  I  am  a  woman,  love. 
I  have  quarrelled  with  my  sex  ;  but  now  I  see 
The  heart  is  keener  to  recoil  from  wrong 
Than  to  divine  the  right,  for  all  my  life 


Was  thwarted  but  I  guessed  not  why.     But  now 
I  would  not  be  a  man  for  all  the  world. 

LAUNCELOT.  Nay,  I  must  pity  you  that  you  are 
a  woman,  for  so  you  miss  life's  greatest  gift — the  joy 
of  loving  one. 

GUENEVERE.     I  would  love  the  woman's  way.     It 
is  great  to  be  a  man,  but  it  is  delicious  to  be  a 
woman. 
[Enter  MERLIN  at  some  distance,  with  an  astrolabe^ 

LAUNCELOT.     Look  yonder  !    How  like  a  visioned 

memory 
Old  Merlin  glides  among  the  trees 

GUENEVERE.  He  comes 

This  way  ;  I  will  accost  him.     Merlin,  ho, 
What  have  you  there  ? 

MERLIN.  An  instrument  to  measure 

The  motions  of  the  stars. 

GUENEVERE.  Then  have  you  been 

In  converse  with  them  of  the  weirds  of  men ; 
For  you  are  Destiny's  familiar. 

MERLIN.  As 

The  child  is  of  its  mother,  who  unfolds 
What  shreds  of  wisdom  it  may  comprehend. 

"5 


Yon  skies,  that  look  so  mild,  are  threatening ; 
Some  evil  passes  in  the  dark  but  what 
Its  name  or  form  the  stars  will  not  declare 
Till  it  unclose  its  formidable  jaws 
And  fire-like  eat  its  prey  and  then  itself. 

GUENEVERE.     How  wisely  they  look  down  from 

their  high  heaven, 

Meeting  our  baffled  eyes  with  that  clear  sight 
Which  no  enigmas  barrier !     It  must  be 
In  them,  if  anywhere,  our  eyes  may  read 
The  secrets  of  our  dooms. 

MERLIN.  Would  you  yourself 

Interrogate  their  silence  ? 

GUENEVERE.  Nay,  for  then 

With  each  succeeding  day  I  must  renew 
The  burden  of  the  accumulated  ills 
Of  a  whole  life.     Let  all  be  unforeseen 
And  then  we  shall  not  suffer  till  our  time. 

LAUNCELOT.     Speak   not   so   sadly.     I   seem   to 

have  just  found  out 

That  human  suffering  is  but  a  cheap  price 
We  pay  for  heavenly  bliss.     Think  rather,  then, 
Of  joy 

GUENEVERE.     The  greatest  joy  is  greater  still, 
126 


When   it  comes   sharp  and  sudden.  —  What  was 

that? 

MERLIN.     Why,  I  heard  nothing. 
GUENEVERE.          Nothing  ?     And  you,  my  lord  ? 
LAUNCELOT.    Nothing.   {The  light  in  the  window 

is  extinguished^ 
GUENEVERE.    I  heard  a  woman's  shriek. — Who 

comes  ? 

{Enter  GALAHAULT.] 

GALAHAULT.    Madam,  I  have  sought  you  every 
where.     Have  you  heard 
This  tale  that  flies  from  lip  to  lip  ? 

GUENEVERE.  What  tale  ? 

GALAHAULT.     Then  you  must  hear  't  from  me. 

Sir  Ladinas 

Has  made  a  formal  accusation,  touching 
The  friendship  you  have  shown  for  Launcelot, 
Which  he  misconstrues  for  a  lawless  love, 
Disloyal  to  the  King. 

LAUNCELOT.  The  dream  is  done — 

So  suddenly 

MERLIN  (apart).    Alas,  then,  it  is  true. 


GALAHAULT  (to   LAUNCELOT).     Be   scanter   of 

your  speech,  lest  Merlin  note. 
The  Queen's  good  name's  at  stake. 

GUENEVERE.  Why,  gentlemen, 

What  ails  it  with  you  that  you  stand  aghast  ? 
It  is  the  penalty  of  eminence 
That  people  grow  familiar  with  our  names  ; 
So  reverence  becomes  garrulity, 
Then  flippancy,  then  foulness, — till  the  highest 
Is  made  most  common,  and  even  the  Sacred  Name 
Debased  to  vile  and  lewd  profanities. 
Come,  Launcelot,  I  shall  keep  you  at  my  side 
Even  more  than  hitherto,  that  men  may  know 
That  what  I  do  is  not  for  them  to  question. 

[Exeunt  GUENEVERE  and  LAUNCELOT.] 

MERLIN.  How  royally  she  carries  it ! — Sir  Gala- 
hault,  you  are  the  greatest  and  most  powerful  prince 
in  the  kingdom,  and  you  have  a  shrewd  knowledge 
of  men  and  things.  Why  will  you  be  an  onlooker  in 
life,  not  a  participant  ? 

GALAHAULT.  I  have  drained  my  cup,  and  now  I 
drink  the  air.  There  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  the 

ideas  of  things.     What  is  all  this  in  search  of? 
128 


MERLIN.     Sir,  I  grow  old  and   I  need  younger 

men 

To  hold  my  hands  up,  like  the  Hebrew  statesman. 
You  are  a  man  fit  for  diplomacy 
And  I  would  have  you  for  co-laborer 
In  the  affairs  of  state  ;  but  chiefly  now 
I  would  have  you  assist  me  to  undo 
This  plot  against  the  Queen.     Guilty  or  guiltless, 
The  credence  of  her  guilt  would  rend  asunder 
Our  scarce  yet  welded  kingdom. 

GALAHAULT.  I  will  do 

All  that  I  may  for  Launcelot  and  the  Queen. 
She  has  bound  me  to  her  with  her  regal  ways  ; 
And  he  not  only  conquered  my  domain 
And  won  me  in  allegiance  to  the  King, — 
His  courtesy  finished  what  his  sword  began, 
And  won  my  heart  too. 

MERLIN.  So  with  me  as  well 

The  personal  wish  chimes  with  the  general  good. 
For  Launcelot,  as  you  know,  was  in  some  sort 
My  foster-son  ;  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Guided  his  first  dream-thinking  and  myself 
Taught  his  quick-summered  youth. — Go,  then,  about 

9  129 


Among  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  court 
And  everywhere  proclaim  her  innocence. 
Opinion  propagates  itself ;  your  stout 
Maintenance  of  her  honor  will  convince 
Many  by  its  mere  confidence  and  make 
A  party  in  her  favor.     In  two  hours 
Meet  me  in  the  laboratory  in  the  tower. 
GALAHAULT.     Wisely  devised;   I'll  set  about  it 

straight.  \£xtt.] 

MERLIN.     0  Runic  charactery,  engraved  in  stars 
Upon  the  everlasting  vault !  wilt  thou 
Forever  mock  us  with  unriddled  speech  ? 
Has  thought  no  cleverness  to  cheat  from  Time 
The  knowledge  of  thy  grammar  ?     And  ye  spirits 
Of  earth  and  air  that  with  uncertain  voice 
Speak  into  too  frail  words  divinities  ! 
Ye  oracles  and  inspirations  vague  ! 
We  hear  your  utterance  but  we  miss  the  sense. 
I  am  the  wisest  brain  of  them  that  know, 
And   I'm  Time's  fool. '  The  Queen,  from  whom  I 

thought 
The  perpetuity  of  the  State  should  grow, 

Even  she  herself  is  the  first  sundering 
130 


From  whence  disintegration  spreads  to  all ! 

Her  fate  has  come  upon  her  and  the  King's, 

And  I  foresaw  not  and  forewarned  them  not. 

Nay,  I  myself  wrought  Arthur  to  her  suit, 

Forethinking  the  realm's  welfare.     Alas,  alas  ! 

I  feel  the  bode  of  prophecy  within  me, 

And  now  surely  I  know  that  all  my  craft 

Shall  be  undone  and  all  the  King's  high  dream, 

And  the  Round  Table  shall  pass  utterly 

Which,  like  a  sacrament,  showed  forth   the   round 

world 

In  that  ideal  unto  which  it  moves. 
How  can  this  be?    Blind  Chance,  that  seems  at 

times 
To  have  malevolent  intelligence 

[Enter  PEREDURE,  with    dress  disordered   and 
without  his  sword.} 

The  Prince  of  Cameliard  ?     In  this  disorder  ? 
What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

PEREDURE.  Art  thou  not  Merlin  ? 

I  think  thou  art  ;  but  make  me  sure,  for  I 
Cannot  believe  my  eyes  are  truth-tellers. 


MERLIN.     For   certain,   I  am  Merlin.     But,  my 

lord, 
Why  start  you  so  and  stare  ?     You  are  not  well. 

PEREDURE.     Why,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.    To  be 

well 

Is  to  be  one  in  millions.     I  am  glad 
That  you  are  well,  sir — very  glad,  by  heaven  ! 

MERLIN.     This  is  too  serious  for  the  matter,  and 
Attention  is  not  in  it.     What  would  you  say  ? 
What  ill  has  happened  ?     Alas,  he  hears  me  not. 

PEREDURE.     I  killed  him  in  her  bed. 

MERLIN.  Killed,  say  you,  sir? 

PEREDURE.     I  see  you  have  white   hairs  and  a 

white  beard  ; 

But  yet  I  know  what  you,  for  all  your  wrinkles, 
Have  never  dreamed  of.     There  is  not  a  woman 
In  all  the  kingdom,  ay,  in  all  the  world, 
But  she's  a  —  magpie.     Let's  be  merry,  then  ! 
Let  us  have  cantharids  and  wine ! 

MERLIN.  My  lord, 

Withdraw  with  me.     There's  wine  within. 

PEREDURE.  There's  blood 

Within — wine,  dp  you  call  it  ? — Ay,  the  butt's 


Split  open  now  and  all  the  wine's  on  the  floor. 
The  thirsty  planks  drink  it  up  gloriously. 
In  her  bed,  did  you  hear  ? — Just  heaven  !     I  tell  you 
I  killed  him  in  her  bed. 
MERLIN.  Whom  did  you  kill  ? 

PEREDURE.     Not  her,  not  her  !    Look  you,  how 

modestly 

She  gathers  up  her  kirtle  as  she  walks ; 
And    yet  within  's  twelve  hours   she   hath  been  — 

Faugh ! 

MERLIN.     What  look  you  on  ? 
PEREDURE.  Not  her  !     She  was  too  fair  ; 

I  could  not  dapple  that  white  skin  with  blood. — 
Give  me  your  hand ;  I   would  touch  something. — 

Death  ? 

She  is  not  dead.     How  can  her  spirit  walk : 
— Why,  so !     Why,  so  !     She  is  gone  again.     Oh, 

Merlin, 

The  moveless  stars  in  heaven  shift  and  reel 
And  there  is  nothing  stable  in  the  world. 

MERLIN.     Come  in  with  me  out  o'  the  damp  night 

air; 
It  is  too  chill  to  stand  without  your  mantle. 


PEREDURE.     Off,  strange    old  man !     I  have    a 

poniard  yet. 

Off!     I  will  kill  the  man  that  hinders  me. — 
Why,  how  it  glistens  in  the  treacherous  moonlight ! 
Is  it  alive,  that  it  should  look  on  me 
With  such  a  haunted  silence  ? — 'T  is  like  the  gleam 
Of  death-fires  in  the  cruel  sea  at  night. — 
What  does  it  say  with  its  cold  eye  ? — Why,  now — 
God  ! — it  comes  back — that  pallid  room — Morgause — 
How  fearfully  a  dead  man  glares  by  moonlight ! — 
False,  false  !— O  Christ !— O  pitiful  Virgin  !— false  ! 

[He  kills  himself.     As  he  falls,  MERLIN  bends 
over  him  in  the  moonlight.] 


CURTAIN. 


•34 


ACT   V. 

SCENE. — Camelot.  The  Great  Hall  of  the  Palace. 
On  the  left,  two  thrones  and  other  raised  seats, 
not  quite  so  high,  DAGONET,  BORS,  and 
ATTENDANTS. 

FIRST  ATTENDANT.  Careful  there,  careful ! 
Have  you  no  respect  for  cloth  of  gold  ?  Will  you 
handle  velvet  like  fustian  ? 

DAGONET  \to  BORS].  No,  but  they  will  wear 
fustian  like  velvet.  And  you  heard  them  in  the 
servants'  hall,  you  would  swear  they  were  all  dukes, 
every  man  of  them. 

FIRST  ATTENDANT.  That  will  do.  There  is 
much  elsewhere  to  be  made  ready  and  the  King -is 
even  now  at  the  gates  of  the  city. 

[Exeunt  ATTENDANTS.] 

BORS.     It  is  the  saddest  tale  I  ever  heard. 

DAGONET.      I'll  never    attempt  to  undeceive  a 
135 


ilaoOM.T.     Knoviag  yoa  to  be  a. 


Peace,  tweak  yov  off !    Ucic  is 


\Emta- 


_.'^  r;T~- 

GUESTVZRE.  r  .r  I  :  rs 

Yon  are  »y  friead,  I   drink;  yon  are 


Yo«  kaov — {fee  worid  kaovs — all  but  Arthur  kncrsr. 


That  we  are gnfltlfss 
front  a  grnkj  dooHL. 
We  kave  •eedaow  o/frK»ds.    Oar  dawfieslKxe 


Give  me  scant  courtesy.     I  will  not 
That  you  too  hold  me  cheaply  or  mistrust 
The  faultless  knighthood  of  Sir  Launcelot. 

Boas.      I  know  that  Launcelot  loves  yon  —  with 

such  love 

As  a  true  knight  may  offer  when  his  lady 
Is  wedded  to  another.     And  I  would,  _ 

In  frankness,  lady,  you  had  been  his  bride. 
You  had  been  none  the  less  a  queen  ;  his  father 
Was  King  of  Benwick  and  his  father's  brother, 
My  father,  Bors,  the  King  of  GauL     We  both 
Are  of  as  royal  blood  as  Arthur  is 
And  might  be  kings,  but  that  we  love  the  King. 
For  him  we  have  resigned  our  ancient  thrones, 
Content  to  be  his  liegemen,  simple  knights 
Of  that  Round  Table  which  is  the  great  sign 
Of  brotherhood  and  true  equality, 
Such  is  the  love  we  bear  him  ;  but  if  he 
Should  do  dishonor  to  Sir  Launcelot 
Or  thee,  whose  knight  Sir  Launcelot  is  sworn, 
Let  him  take  heed.     We  may  resume  our  crowns, 

GUEXEVERE.     I  thank  you,  sir.     You  are  a  noble 
friend. 


Sir  Ector  de  Maris  will  be  with  us, 
Pelleas,  Lionel,  and  Bleoberis 


BORS.     Ay,  madam,  all  our  kin. 

GUENEVERK.                                      It  will  be  much 
To  have  so  strong  a  party  in  the  court. 
Among  the  knights  I  brought  from  Cameliard 
Some  must  be  faithful.     There  is  great  devotion 
Among  them  to  my  brother,  and  my  brother 
Loves  me  as  his  own  soul.     He  will  not  fail 

BORS.     Alas,  my  lady,  then  you  have  not  heard  1 

GUENEVERE.     Heard  ?     What  ?    Has  aught ? 

BORS.  Oh,  steel  yourself,  my  Queen, 

For  I  must  be  the  advertisement  of  woe. 
Peredure 

GUENEVERE.     Speak !    What  ill   has  happened 
to  him  ? 

BORS.      He  is  dead. 

GUENEVERE.  Dead  ?    my  brother— dead  ! 

BORS.  Alas, 

It  is  so — dead,  and  slain  by  his  own  hand. 

GUENEVERE.     Grief  loves  to  shoot  twice  at  the 
selfsame  mark, — 

Ah,  like  a  skilful  archer  whose  first  shaft 
138 


Hath  pierced  the  centre,  sends  a  second  after, 
That  with  unerring  niceness  splits  the  first. 
Where  did  he  this  ? 

BORS.  There  were  two  witnesses, 

Merlin  and  Dagonet.     Let  him  tell  the  rest. 

DAGONET.  It  happened  on  this  wise,  my  lady. 
Your  brother  was  enamoured  of  the  Queen  of  Ork 
ney, — but  in  honorable  fashion,  for  he  fancied  her 
to  be  as  spotless  as  a  Glastonbury  nun.  And  with 
this  he  was  fallen  into  such  a  melancholy  that  I 
feared  he  would  lose  his  wits.  I  loved  your  brother 
and  in  my  folly  I  sought  to  deliver  him.  I  knew 
what  a  false  jade  was  the  theme  of  his  idolatry  and, 
indeed,  that  she  was  this  six  months  coddling  with 
that  fine-feathered  incontinent  French  magpie,  Sir 
Ladinas  de  la  Rouse.  So  I  lay  in  watch  for  the 
couple,  thinking  that  the  truth,  though  a  vile -tasting 
medicine,  would  cure  him  ;  and  yesternight,  finding 
the  two  together,  I  brought  Peredure  word. 

GUENEVERE.     You  did  well,  Dagonet ;  for  'tis  far 

better 

To  know  and  suffer  than  to  be  deceived 
And  dote  on  loathsomeness.     I  knew  myself 

'39 


Of  this  infatuation  of  my  brother, 
Yet  in  the  thick  and  tumult  of  my  sorrows 
I  took  no  heed  of  his.     You  have  done  well ; 
Nc  knight  of  the  Round  Table  sheathes  within 
His  corselet  a  more  true-steeled  heart  than  you 
Cloak  with  your  motley. 

DAGONET.                    I  thank  you  for  that  speech. 
I  did  not  this,  forgetful  of  my  Queen. 
When  first  I  came  on  Ladinas  and  Morgause, 
Their  talk  was  all  of  you, — how  he  had  used 
A  key  that  she  had  begged  from  Peredure, 
To  gain  an  entrance  to  the  prince's  rooms, 
From  whence  he  said,  he  had  seen 

GUENEVERE.  I  shall  not  fail 

To  recognize  this  service  at  its  worth. — 
Go  on  !     When  you  told  this  to  Peredure  ? 

DAGONET.     Then  was  he  like  a  man  that  puts  his 

feet 

On  ice  whose  wintry  firmness  has  grown  rotten 
With  the  April  in  the  air,  and  when  he  thinks 
All  steadfast,  feels  it  sink  from  under  him. 
Away  he  starts,  wild  as  the  tameless  horse 
Of  Tartary,  and  comes  to  where  they  lie. 


When  I,  less  swift  of  foot,  came  up  with  him, 
I  found  him  standing  dumb,  with  bloody  sword, 
Over  the  twitching  corpse  of  that  false  knight, 
His  senseless  eyes  fixed  on  Morgause,  who  cowered 
Behind  the  curtains,  silent  for  dismay. 
Me  she  saw  not,  for  ere  I  crossed  the  sill, 
He  threw  the  hot  sword  at  her  feet  and  fled, 
Crying,  "  She  is  too  fair,  she  is  too  fair  ! " 

GUENEVERE.     Oh,  better  were  it  if  his  righteous 

heel 
Had  stamped  that  viper  out  o'  the  world.     Go  on ! 

DAGONET.     There  is  no  more  to  tell.     I  followed 

him, 

But  ere  I  reached  the  gardens,  he  was  dead. 
I  found  him  lying  pallid  in  the  moonlight 
And  ancient  Merlin  bending  over  him. 

GUENEVERE.   He  was  too  delicate  to  face  the  blasts 
Of  this  world's  winter.     He  was  all  compassion, 
All  gentleness,  all  love,  all  tender  heart, 
So  sensitive  of  thought  that  he  could  scarce 
Endure  the  passing  of  an  aimless  sigh, 
So  frail  of  spirit  that  the  silent  days 
Were  in  themselves  too  burdensome  a  load. 


So, — let  him  rest.     The  jarring  of  the  world 
Frets  his  fine  ear  no  longer. — Gentlemen, 
Pray,  leave  me.     I  would  think  of  him  alone. 

BORS.     Our  hearts  are  with  you. 

[Exeunt  BORS  and  DAGONET.] 

GUENEVERE.  Oh,  that  I  could  weep 

The  copious  blubber  of  a  village  maid, 
Uncurbed  by  royal  pride,  or  consciousness 
That  o'ermistrusts  and  will  not  slack  the  bit ! 
Oh,  could  I  weep — and  empty  woe  with  weeping  ! 
There  is  a  swelling  passion  in  my  heart 
Will  split  all  yet.     I  cannot  like  a  girl 
Draw  't  off  in  driblets.     Oh,  my  blameless  brother, 
Undone  for  a  guilty  world  !     And  that  which  led 
To  the  discovery  that  was  thy  doom, 
A  plot  born  of  a  woman's  hate  for  me 
And  of  my  reckless  fate-contending  love  ! 
Oh,  what  a  tangled  anarchy  is  life  ! 
If  the  rash  Will  strive  in  the  helter-skelter 
To  weave  for  itself  a  little  ordered  space, 
Its  skilless  touch  pulls  unexpected  threads 
That  tighten  to  'ts  own  strangling.     Peredure 
Is  but  the  first.     The  implacable  net  is  drawn 

I4Z 


About  the  feet  of  all  that  love  us.     Bors — 

Poor  faithful,  merry  Dagonet — all  who  hold 

To  Launcelot's  cause — must  all  these  spend  their 

hearts 

That  we  may  love  ?     Do  I  love  Launcelot  ? 
Oh,  if  I  loved  him,  could  I  draw  him  on 
So  to  his  own  undoing  ?     Shall  his  name 
That  even  in  the  young  April  of  his  deeds 
Greatens  in  splendor  like  the  northering  sun, 
Be  made  a  refuse  for  the  ragman  world 
To  fret  and  fumble  with  a  prodding  stick  ? 
O  God !     Shall  I  uncage  the  captive  wolves 
Of  war,  to  harry  the  whole  land  and  rend 
The  offenceless  kern,  to  give  my  sorrow  ease  ? 
It  must  not  be.     What  right  have  I  to  love, 
What  right  have  I  to  joy,  that 'should  so  play 
The  Tambourlaine  and  scourge  so  many  woes 
To  drag  its  chariot  like  his  captive  kings  ? 
It  must  not  be.     Oh,  let  me^take  an  oath 
Before     high    heaven!      Launcelot,    I    must    save 

^^* 

thee  ! 

Oh,  heavy  fate,  to  love  and  be  a  queen  ! 
Ay,  Peredure,  I  know  it  now — too  late  ! 

M3 


Had  I  but  hearkened  to  your  pleading  foresight ! 
Oh,  Peredure,  my  brother  ! 

{Enter  LAUNCELOT.] 

Launcelot ! 

LAUNCELOT.    Dear  heart  1 

GUENEVERE.  Whence  come  you  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  Speakest  thou  so  coldly  ? 

I  passed  Sir  Bors  without  and  Dagonet ; 
They  sent  me  hither,  saying  I  should  find 
The  Queen  here.     So,  indeed,  I  do  and  not 
The  woman,  not  the  eyes  that  met  .my  eyes 
With  proud  confession,  not  the  lips  that  spoke 
Quivering   but    dauntless,    saying,    "  I    love    thee, 
Launcelot." 

0  Guenevere,  hast  thou  forgot  so  soon 

That  thou  canst  speak  with  this  mechanic  voice 
And  look  on  me  so  vacantly  ? 
GUENEVERE.  Forgot  ? 

1  never  shall  forget. 

LAUNCELOT.  Then  thou  repentest. 

Ay,  now  I  see  the  longing  in  thy  face 

That  thou  hadst  ne'er  beheld  me.     Be  it  so. 
144 


I  was  a  selfish  monster  when  I  thrust 

My  love  into  the  forecourt  of  thy  life.     .     .     . 

And  yet — you  loved  me  once.     And  oh,  those  hours 

When  I  could  feel  the  warm  breath  from  your  lips 

Creep  o'er  my  cheek  and  mingle  with  my  hair ! 

The   sweet  long    hours   whose    lingering  moments 

dripped 

Like  rhythmic  water-drops  into  a  pool 
With  silver  parsimony  of  sweet  sound 
As  if  Time  grudged  each  globule  !  Why,  now  I  see 
Tears  in  your  eyes. 

GUENEVERE.  O  Launcelot,  my  king  ! 

LAUNCELOT.     My  own  true  wife  ! 

GUENEVERE.  Do  not  call  back  that  time 

With  any  farewell  cadence  in  your  voice  ! 
And  oh,  do  not  reproach  yourself,  my  god, 
For  opening  to  me  those  golden  doors  ! 
We  lived  then. 

LAUNCELOT.     There  is  honey  on  your  lips 
As  on  the  Theban  child's.     I  am  the  bees 
That  gather  it — so. 

GUENEVERE.  Launcelot ! — No,  no  ! 

I  had  forgot.     Am  I,  then,  like  the  rest  ? 

10  MS 


Is  there  so  much  o'  the  woman  in  my  veins 

That  resolution,  buttressed  in  with  vows, 

Cannot  endure  the  first  assault  of  love  ? 

We  have  had  a  radiant  dream  ;  we  have  beheld 

The  trellises  and  temples  of  the  south 

And  wandered  in  the  vineyards  of  the  sun  : — 

'T  is  morning  now  ;  the  vision  fades  away, 

And  we  must  face  the  barren  norland  hills. 

LAUNCELOT.     And  must  this  be  ? 

GUENEVERE.  Nay,  Launcelot,  it  is. 

How  shall  we  stand  alone  against  the  world  ? 

LAUNCELOT.     More  lonely  in  it  than  against  it ! 

What's 
The  world  to  us  ? 

GUENEVERE.    The  place  in  which  we  live. 
We  cannot  slip  it  from  us  like  a  garment, 
For  it  is  like  the  air — if  we  should  flee 
To  the  remotest  steppes  of  Tartary, 
Arabia  or  the  sources  of  the  Nile, 
Or  that  dim  region  lying  in  the  west, 
Where  Brandan's  holy  ships  found  anchorage, 
It  still  is  there,  nor  can  it  be  eluded 
Save  in  the  airless  emptiness  of  death. 


LAUNCELOT.      Say    rather,    like    the    miasmatic 

breath 

Of  swamps  that  swarm  to  rankness.     In  the  clear 
And  unpolluted  air  of  mountain-tops 
Freedom  and  solitude  companion.     Oh, 
Let  the  dense  earth  bring  forth  its  venomous  growths ! 
It  cannot  harm  us  on  the  heights. 

GUENEVERE.  We  must  not 

Attempt  the  ascent.     The  perils  are  too  great 
That  ward  the  way. 

LAUNCELOT.  What  reck  I  of  the  perils 

Between  me  and  the  graal  of  my  desires  ? 

GUENEVERE.     To  plunge  the  land  in  war !     To 

rend  the  kingdom ! 
LAUNCELOT.     You  are  worth  all  the  kingdoms  in 

the  world. 
GUENEVERE.     To  drag  our  friends  down  with  us 

in  our  fall ! 
LAUNCELOT.     We  shall  not  fall.     And  what  is 

friendship  worth 
That  will  not  face  adversity  for  us  ? 

GUENEVERE.     We    rend    the    holiest  bond,   the 
family. 

'47 


LAUNCELOT.     We  but  destroy  the  false,  build  up 
the  true. 

GUENEVERE.— Think  of  your   childhood's  home, 

your  father's  hearth, 

Helen,  your  mother,  at  her  household  cares, 
The  sacred  bond  from  which  your  life  began, 
Within  whose  circle  boyhood  grew  to  youth — 
Knit  by  the  gentle  hand  of  ageless  custom 
And  consecrate  with  immemorial  rites. 

LAUNCELOT.     I  think  of  this  ;  I,  too,  would  have 
a  home. 

GUENEVERE.    You  have  the  world  ;  the  family 

alone 

Is  woman's,  it  alone  is  her  protection, 
Her  mission  and  her  opportunity. 
In  it  alone  she  lives,  and  she  defends  it, 
Even  when  its  knife  is  in  her  heart. 

LAUNCELOT.  And  I — 

I,  too,  defend  it,  when  it  is  a  family, 
As  I  would  kneel  before  the  sacred  Host 
When  through  the  still  aisles  sounds  the  sacring-bell. 
But  if  a  jester  strutted  through  the  forms 
And  turned  the  holy  Mass  into  a  mock, 


Would  I  still  kneel,  or  would  I  rise  in  anger 
And  make  an  end  of  that  foul  mimicry  ? 

GUENEVERE.     Believest  thou,  then,  the  power  of 

the  Church  ? 
The  Church  would  give  our  love  an  ugly  name. 

LAUNCELOT.    Faith,  I  believe  and  I  do  not  be 
lieve. 

The  shocks  of  life  oft  startle  us  to  thought, 
Rouse  us  from  acquiescence  and  reveal 
That  what  we  took  for  credence  was  but  custom. 
Though  the  priests  be  the  channels  of  God's  grace, 
Yet  otherwise  they  are  but  men  ;  they  err 
As  others,  may  mistake  for  falsehood  truth, 
And  holiness  for  sin. — God  help  me,  sweet, 
I  cannot  reason  it — I  only  know 
I  love  you. 

GUENEVERE.    You    are    Arthur's  friend.      Your 

love — 
Stands  this  within  the  honor  of  your  friendship  ? 

LAUNCELOT.     Mother   of  God!— Have   you   no 
pity? 

GUENEVERE.    I  would 

I  could  be  pitiful  and  yet  do  right. 
M9 


Alas,  how  heavy — your  tears  move  me  more 
Than  all — (What  am  I  saying  ?     Dare  I  trust 
So  faint  a  heart  ?     I  must  make  turning  back 
Impossible.) — Best  know  the  worst !     I  jested — 
I  —  God !  —  I    do    not    love    you.      Go  !      'T   was 

all 

Mockery — wanton,    cruelty — what    you    will — lech 
ery  ! — 
I— 

[LAUNCELOT  looks  at  her  dumbly,  then  slowly 
turns  to  go.  As  he  draws  aside  the  cur 
tains  of  the  doorway, — ] 

Launcelot ! 

LAUNCELOT.    What  does  the  Queen  desire  ? 
GUENEVERE.     Oh,  no,  I  am  not  the  Queen— I  am 

your  wife  ! 

Take  me  away  with  you  !     Let  me  not  lie 
To  you,  of  all — My  whole  life  is  a  lie. 
To  one,  at  least,  let  it  be  truth.     I— I — 

0  Launcelot,  do  you  not  understand  ? — 

1  love  you — oh,  I  cannot  let  you  go. 

LAUNCELOT.    I  pray  you  do  not  jest  a  second 

time  ; 

150 


I  scarce  could  bear  it. — Yet  your  eyes  speak  true. 
Tell  me  you  speak  the  truth. 

GUENEVERE.  I  speak  the  truth. 

Call  me  your  wife  ! 

LAUNCELOT.          My  wife,  my  wife,  my  wife  ! 

GUENEVERE.    Love,  I  will  fly  with  thee  where'er 
thou  wilt. 

LAUNCELOT.     Speak  not  of  flight ;  I  have  played 

him  false — the  King, 

My  friend.     I  ne'er  can  wipe  that  smirch  away 
At  least,  I  will  not  add  a  second  shame 
And  blazon  out  the  insult  to  the  world. 

GUENEVERE.    What  I  have  given  thee  was  ne'er 

another's. 
How  has  another,  then,  been  wronged  ? 

LAUNCELOT.  What's  done 

Is  done,  nor  right  nor  wrong,  as  help  me  heaven, 
Would  I  undo  it  if  I  could.     But  more 
I  will  not  do.     I  will  not  be  the  Brutus 
To  stab  with  mine  own  hand  my  dearest  friend. 
It  must  suffice  me  that  you  love  me,  sweet, 
And  sometime,  somewhere,  somehow  must  be  mine. 
I  know  not — it  may  be  some  dim  land 


Beyond  the  shadows,  where  the  King  himself, 
Still  calling  me  his  friend,  shall  place  your  hand 
In  my  hand,  saying — "  She  was  always  thine." 

GUENEVERE.  I  will  do  as  thou  wilt,  m  this  and 

all  things. 
But  oh,  the  weary  days  ! 

LAUNCELOT.  It  is  enough 

To  know  thou  lovest  me — sometimes,  perhaps — 
Oh,  I  am  but  a  man  ! — to  feel  as  now 
Thy  cheek  against  my  own. 

GUENEVERE.  Oh,  Launcelot, 

Peredure  is  dead. 

LAUNCELOT.       Thy  brother  ? 

GUENEVERE.  He  is  dead. 

LAUNCELOT.     I  do  not  wonder  that  you  were  dis 
traught. 

[Shouting,  etc.,  without.] 

GUENEVERE.     It  is  the  silly  rabble  that  toss  up 
Their  caps  for  Arthur.     He  will  soon  be  here, — 
Though  a  king's  progress  is  a  tedious  one. 

[MORGAUSE,  about  to  enter,  perceives  LAUNCE 
LOT  and  GUENEVERE  and  withdraws.      A 
152 


slight  stir  of  the  curtain  shows  that  she  is 
listening.} 

I  must  go  to  get  me  ready  for  the  pageant. 

LAUNCELOT.     Be  not  afraid.     The  charge  that's 

laid  against  us, 
Cannot  be  certified  by  evidence. 

GUENEVERE.     And  if  it  were — why,  then  it  were, 

and  so 

The  burden  of  decision  were  removed. 
Kiss  me  !     Farewell,  a  little  while,  my  love  ! 
It  is  a  woeful  world,  at  best.     Thank  God 
For  love,  even  with  its  anguish! 

[Exit,  through  a  small  door  back  of  the  thrones^ 

LAUNCELOT.  Why,  then  it  were  ! 

Ay,  even  disgrace  would  be  an  ease  of  breath 
After  this  tension  of  duplicity. 
God  help  me,  I  am  like  a  man  aghast 
Between  a  dragon  and  a  basilisk, 
Which  one  he  fronts  dilating  as  he  stares 
More  horrid  than  the  other.     O  mystery 
Of  Fate,  that  folds  us  with  encircling  gloom  ! 
What  issue  sleeps  for  us  in  thy  dark  womb  ? 

'53 


[As  he  starts  to  go  out,  enter  MORGAUSE  care 
lessly.  They  bow  to  each  other.  Exit 
LAUNCELOT.] 

MORGAUSE.    So  ?     Kissing  at  the  very  foot  of  the 

throne  ? 
What  impudence !     .     .     .     Why,  now  I  have  the 

witness 

Of  mine  own  eyes  to  carry  to  the  King. 
What,  billing  like  two  sparrows  on  the  highway, 
Shameless  of  who  may  see  ?     Oho,  my  birds  ! 
You  are  in  the  springe.     And  Mistress  Eyebrows, 

you 

Shall  lower  a  little  those  proud  orbs  of  yours. 
Arthur  can  hardly  doubt  nis  sister's  word, 
Especially  when  she  is  Queen  of  Orkney 
And  Rome  is  knocking  at  his  gates  for  tribute. 
But  yet  there's  Peredure  to  reckon  with. 
Oh,  had  I  but  picked  up  his  bloody  sword 
And  plunged  it  in  his  heart  before  he  fled  ! 
But,  like  an  infant,  I  must  lose  my  wits, 
To  see  him  raging  so,  like  a  mad  bull 
That  breaks  its  tether  in  the  fields,  and  gores 

'54 


The  dull  earth  in  its  fury.     Poor  La  Rouse  ! 

He's  out  of  it.     He  has  taken  a  bath  this  time 

Has  frozen  all  the  longing  in  his  veins. 

Why,  I  was  fondling  him  and  found  it  sweet — 

And  then,  so  cold,  a  coldness  like  damp  earth 

Or  some  slow-blooded  fishy  creature, — pah  ! 

I  was  a-creep  with  loathing  at  the  feel 

Of  that  limp  dummy,  as  I  dragged  it  out 

And  dumped  it  in  the  fountain.     So  much,  at  least, 

Is  done  to  kill  the  scent.     But  Peredure  ? — 

Will  he  be  silent  when  he  finds  his  sister 

Is  muddied  by  my  hands  ?     No,  he  will  blurt 

All  out ;  and  gossip  virtue,  like  a  hawk, 

Leaving  the  fluttered  Queen,  will  change  its  flight 

And  fall  on  the  new  quarry.     The  accusation 

Cannot  be  held/back  now,  even  if  I  would. 

'Tis  known  to  the  whole  palace.     I  have  sailed 

Into  a  storm  that  bears  me  where  it  will, 

And  all  my  hope  is  to  escape  the  reefs.     .     .     . 

Devise,  devise.     If  Peredure  accuse  me, 

As  he  will  surely  do,  I  will  be  merry, 

Jest  of  his  love — I  have  it,  I  will  say 

He  would  himself  have  won  me  to  his  will 
155 


And,  failing,  slew  La  Rouse  of  jealousy, — 

But  not  in  my  apartments.     I  must  swear 

La  Rouse  was  not  with  me. — That  will  not  do. 

Curse  him,  they  will   not   doubt  his  word.      Fie, 

fie! 

Cannot  I  weave  a  better  lie  than  this  ? — 
'Tis  odd  I  have  not  seen  the  boy  to-day. 
What  if  he  have  gone  mad — that  would  not  be 
So  strange — or  in  a  melancholy  fit, 
Such  as  he  often  sullens  with  for  trifles, 
Have  wandered  from  the  court  ?   Why,  there's  some 

hope. 

If  he  but  make  no  entrance  in  the  scene 
That's  on  this  morning — then  let  him  come  back ! 
But,  Peredure,  it  will  be  to  thy Ah, 

[Enter  PUBLIUS.] 

The  ambassador ! — Good  morrow,  Publius  ! 

PUBLIUS.     My  duty  to  your  Majesty.     All  mor 
rows 
Are  good  when  age  receives  the  smile  of  beauty. 

MORGAUSE.     Or  wisdom  deigns  to  bow  to  witless 

youth. 

'56 


PUBLIUS.     Your  Majesty's  most  rancorous  enemy 
Would  not  accuse  her  of  a  lack  of  wit. 

MORGAUSE.     But  wit   and   folly  ever  course  to 
gether. 

— Go  to,  we  draw  it  out  too  thin.     What  think  you 
The  King  will  say  to  Rome's  demand  to-day  ? 

PUBLIUS.     He  will  refuse  it.     He  is  overbold. 
A  soldier  is  but  a  huge  animal 
Whose  brawn  the  statesman  turns  to  his  own  ends. 

MORGAUSE.     To  underrate  the  foe  does  not  aug 
ment 

Our  strength  before,  nor  glory  after  battle. 
Arthur  is  not  a  horse  for  you  to  stride, 
And  Merlin,  though  the  King  not  always  heeds  him, 
Is  shrewder  than  us  all. 

PUBLIUS.  He  will  refuse, 

Though  fifty  Merlins  counsel.     'T  is  his  pride 
That  thinks  itself  a  second  Julius  Cssar. 
Then,  with  these  unforeseen  domestic  feuds, 
He  must  do  battle  with  enfeebled  forces. 
And  Britain  is  once  more  a  Roman  province. 
Where  is  La  Rouse  to-day  ? 

MORGAUSE.  I  have  not  seen  him. 


PUBLIUS.      Strange  !      He   was   to   communicate 

with  me 
At  daybreak. 

MORGAUSE.     The  Empire's  system  of  espionage 
Is  very  perfect,  is  it  not  ? 

PUBLIUS.  Your  Majesty, 

It  is  my  charge  ;  I  cannot  praise  myself. 

MORGAUSE.     I  fancy,  were  some  enemy  of  Rome, 
Some  dangerous  enemy,  in  a  foreign  court, 
Some  man  who  knew  too  much,  we'll  say — you  could 
Remove  him,  I  presume,  with  little  trouble. 

PUBLIUS.     Were  such  a  man  in  Camelot,  he  were 

dead 

Before  the  day  were. — She  has  some  one  in  mind. 
No  matter  ;  Rome  can  spend  a  dram  of  hemlock 
For  such  allies. 

MORGAUSE.      So  soon  as  that,  indeed  ! 
I  see  't  is  well. to  keep  in  Roman  favor. — 
Then  look  to  it  that  the  Prince  of  Cameliard 
Never  appears  again  before  the  King. 
'T  is  well  for  Rome,  I  tell  you.     We  have  used  him 
And  now  he  is  incensed.     He  has  not  been 

About  the  court  to-day. 

158 


PUBLIUS.  If  he  appear 

Too  quickly,  he  shall  perish  by  the  knife  ; 
Else,  lest  we  wake  suspicion,  he  must  die 
A  natural  death. 

MORGAUSE.       St !     Finger  on  the  lips  ! 

[Enter  MERLIN.] 

PUBLIUS.     Is  the  King  near  ? 
MERLIN.     He  even  now  dismounts. 
PUBLIUS.     I  must  withdraw  and  seek  my  fellow- 
legates. 
Madam,  I  humbly  take  my  leave, — [apart  rapidly\  I 

give  « 

The  order   at  once — [to  MERLIN]   and  of  you,  sir, 
most  humbly.  \Exit.} 

MERLIN.     I  am  well  pleased  to  find  the  Queen  of 

Orkney 

Does  not  forget  her  brother's  interests, 
But  even  spreads  her  fascinating  snares 
About  the  feet  of  senile  enemies. 

MORGAUSE.     Would  all  of  Arthur's  blood  were 
but  as  true ! 

Merlin,  I  fear  my  sister,  Fay  Morgana, 
159 


Will  set  her  husband  and  the  King  at  odds, 
If  Rome  should  war  upon  us. 

MERLIN.  Fay  Morgana 

Would  say,  "  My  sister  is  not  overwise  ; 
She  is  so  shrewd  she  ceases  to  be  shrewd." 
MORGAUSE.     I  know  my  learned  sister  is   your 

pupil ; 
I  never  thought  to  match  with  her  in  craft. 

MERLIN.     Craft  is  no  craft,  when   craftier  is  at 

play; 

Craft  and  no  craft — and  that  is  all  I  say. 
A  woman's  wit  is  subtle  but  unsure. 

MORGAUSE.     Why  do  you  juggle  with  a  senseless 

rhyme  ? 

MERLIN.     So  that  your  wits  may  have  a  tree  to 
climb.  [Flourish  without.} 

MORGAUSE.     At  last,  the  King  ! 

[Enter  ARTHUR,  GuENEVERE,  LAUNCELOT,  GOD- 
MAR,  GALAHAULT,  KAYE,  BORS,  LIONEL,  EC- 
TOR,  GAWAINE,  LIONORS,  DAGONET,  KNIGHTS, 
LADIES,  HERALDS  and  ATTENDANTS.  Flour 
ish.  The  KING  and  QUEEN  ascend  their  thrones. 


MERLIN  takes  the  raised  seat  next  the  King. 
KAYE  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  attended 
by  two  HERALDS.] 

ARTHUR.     Fair  dames  and  damsels,  greeting  ! 
My  lords  and  gentlemen,  most  noble  knights 
Of  the  Round  Table,  greeting  to  you  all ! 
With  wassail  and  rejoicing  we  return ; 
For  victory,  like  the  reflected  sun, 
Sits  flashing  on  our  helmets.     Cornwall  now 
Acknowledges  our  suzerainty  and  holds 
His  crown  in  feoff.     This  rings  the  curtain  down 
Upon  the  first  act  of  our  purposes. 
Our  Trojan  race,  enfeebled  by  dependence 
So  long  upon  the  strong  protecting  swords 
Of  Rome,  our  cousin  and  erstwhile  our  conqueror, 
And,  that  stout  panoply  and  bond  withdrawn, 
Cleft  into  princedoms  and  conflicting  states, 
Lay,  when  I  found  it,  helpless  in  its  chaos 
To  make  a  head  against  the  Saxon  raids 
Or  to  cast  off  the  yoke  of  Roman  tribute. 
Nor  needed  there  a  foreign  foe  ;  for  when 
Each  realm  within  the  realm  would  be  supreme, 


What  hinders  that  each  lordship  do  the  like, 

Each  barony,  each  village,  each  strong  arm  ? 

Why,  such  a  land  is  like  a  rotting  corpse  ; 

For  when  that  harmony  and  principle 

Of  union,  which  is  life,  is  ta'en  away, 

And  each  corporeal  atom  works  alone, 

The  issue  is  corruption.     The  great  world 

Should  have  one  lord,  as  Britain  has  at  last ; 

There  lies  the  true  goal  of  all  polity. 

But  we,  at  least,  are  one  ;  nor  only  Britain 

But  many  parts  of  France  accept  our  sway. 

'T  is  fit,  at  such  a'joyous  consummation, 

Wrought    with     such    toil     of    statecraft    and    of 

arms, 

To  deck  our  city  like  a  Queen  of  May 
With  many-colored  flags  and  summer  garlands, 
And     make     the     midnight    sky    to     mock     the 

dawn 
With  the  red  gleam  of  bonfires  on  the  hills. 

[Sits.     Murmurs  of  applause^ 
What  matters  in  our  absence  have  arisen 
That  need  the  scrutiny  of  the  King  ?     Proceed. 

\The  heralds  sound, .] 
162 


KAYS.     First,  dread   my  lord,  the  ambassadors 

from  Rome. 
ARTHUR.     Let  them  appear. 

\Flourish.  Enter  PUBLIUS  and  nine  other  AMBAS 
SADORS,  old  men,  bearing  each  a  branch  of 
olive.  They  kneel  before  the  throne.~\ 

PUBLIUS.  First  for  ourselves  we  do 

This  reverence  to  your  Majesty,  entreating 
Lest  we  lose  favor  in  your  eyes,  in  that 
We  do  a  graceless  office.     We  are  but  cogs 
In  the  machinery  of  imperial  Rome 
And  work  our  master's  will. 

ARTHUR.  Rise,  gentlemen, 

And  let  the  throne  of  Britain  know  your  message. 

PUBLIUS       \reads\       "  Lucius,     the     high    and 

mighty  Emperor, 

Sendeth  to  Arthur,  King  of  Britain,  greeting, 
Commanding  thee  that  thou  acknowledge  him 
Thy  lord,  and  that  thou  send  the  truage  due 
Unto  the  Empire,  which  thy  father  paid 
And  other  heretofore  thy  predecessors, 

As  is  of  record.     Thou,  as  a  false  rebel, 
163 


Not  knowing  him  to  be  thy  sovereign, 
Withholdest  and  retainest  this  just  impost, 
Contrary  to  the  statutes  and  decrees, 
Made  by  the  noble  and  worthy  Julius  Csesar, 
Conqueror  of  this  realm  and  of  the  world, 
First  Emperor  of  Rome.     If  thou  refuse, 
Know  thou  for  certain  he  shall  make  strong  war 
On  thee,  thy  realms  and  lands,  and  shall  chastise 
Thee  and  thy  subjects,  making  an  ensample 
Perpetual  unto  all  kings  and  princes 
Not  to  rebel  against  that  noble  empire 
Which  domineth  the  universal  world." 

A  YOUNG  KNIGHT.     Gentlemen,  shall  this  gray- 
beard  insolence 
Scoff  in  our  teeth  ? 

[Several  of  the  younger  knights  draw    their 
swords.] 

ARTHUR.     Put  up  your  swords.     He  dies, 
Who  touches  these  old  men  except  with  reverence. 
Fie,  would  ye  strike  the  herald  in  his  office 
Or  run  upon  unweaponed  age  ? — Go,  tell 
Your  lord,  there  was  a  king  of  Britain  once 

Who  sacked  great  Rome  itself,  despite  the  geese 
164 


Cackled  to  save  it.     As  for  this  demand, 

I  know  no  tribute  that  I  owe  to  him, 

Nor  to  no  earthly  prince,  Christian  nor  heathen. 

Say  furthermore  that  I  myself  pretend 

In  virtue  of  my  lineal  descent 

From  that  great  Constantine  who  saw  the  Cross 

Blazoned  upon  the  sky  for  his  device, 

And  conquered  in  that  sign,  who  was  himself 

A  Briton,  son  of  Helena,  our  Queen, 

And  sprung  from  immemorial  royalty  — 

From  him,  I  say,  I  trace  my  high  descent, 

From  him  I  hold  the  sovereignty  of  Britain 

And  from  him,  too,  the  Iron  Crown  of  Rome. 

And  I  proclaim  that  Lucius  wears  that  crown 

As  an  usurper  and  a  rebel,  and 

Demand  that  he  and  all  that  are  of  Rome 

Hasten  incontinent  to  do  me  homage 

As  their  true  Emperor,  on  pain  of  all 

That  shall  ensue.     For,  rest  you  well  assured, 

If  I  invade  Italia  with  my  chivalry, 

The  legioned  arms  of  Rome  shall  stead  you  little. 

This  is  my  answer.     But  do  not  for  this 

Yourselves  be  too  impetuous  of  return. 

i6S 


Abide  some  days  in  Camelot,  my  lords; 
We  shall  afford  you  merry  entertainment. 

PUBLIUS.  Your  declaration  puts  the  world  at  war; 
We  may  not  dally  in  a  hostile  court. 

[Exit,  with  AMBASSADORS.] 

KAYE    \aparf\.     My   lord,   I  would   have  warned 

you  of  the  next ; 

But  I  could  get  no  audience  in  the  press. 
[Aloud,  reading.]  "  Sir  Ladinas  de  la  Rouse,  a  lord 

of  France, 

And  Knight  of  the  Round  Table,  doth  impeach 
Guenevere,  Queen  of  Britain,  Sovran  Lady 
Of  the  most  Knightly  and  Christian  Fellowship 
Of  the  Round  Table,  et  cetera,  of  treason 
To  the  most  gracious  person  of  the  King 
And  to  the  safety  of  the  realm,  in  living 
In  shameless  license  with  Sir  Launcelot. 
Also  he  doth  impeach  for  the  same  cause 
Sir  Launcelot  du  Lac,  the  son  of  Ban, 
Lord  of  the  land  of  Benwick  and  the  castle 
Of  Joyous  Card.     This  charge  he  undertakes 
To  prove  by  evidence  irrefragable, 
Or  else  to  meet  Sir  Launcelot  in  the  lists 

1 66 


And  whatsoever  Knight  beside  appear 
To  champion  the  quarrel  of  the  Queen. 
In  pledge  whereof  he  offers  to  the  King 
The  disposition  of  his  life  and  lands." 

[Profound  silence,"} 
LAUNCELOT.     This  is  a  grievous  charge  to  make. 

But  why 

Comes  not  the  knight  according  to  his  bond, 
That  I  may  prove  his  lie  upon  his  head  ? 

MORGAUSE.     Because   he  has  been  treacherously 

murdered  — 

Therefore  he  comes  not,  thou  dishonored  knight ! 
KAYE.     Murdered  ? 

MORGAUSE.     Ay,  murdered  —  by  Prince  Peredure, 
The    brother    of    the    Queen !      A  strange    concur 
rence  ! 
MERLIN.     How  comes  it,  lady,  that  you  know  so 

much  ? 

Did  Dagonet  tell  you  or  Sir  Bors  ?     They  only, 
Except  myself,  have  known  of  this.     Be  careful; 
With  too  much  knowledge  you  undo  yourself. 
ARTHUR.      Enough  !   'T  is  well,  perhaps,  that  he 

is  dead ; 

167 


Else  this  preposterous  charge  might  not  be  passed 
Unquestioned  and  unpunished.  —  Is  aught  else ? 

MORGAUSE.     Oh,   not  so  fast,  my  royal  brother! 

La  Rouse 

Cannot  break  through  his  coffin  to  sustain 
His  righteous  accusation;  but  I  take 
That  burden  on  myself.     I  shall  demand 
Bors  de  Ganys,  the  Lady  Lionors 
—  You  should  believe  her,  she  was  never  false 
To  you  —  Prince  Galahault,  who  knows  full  well 
What  he  is  loth  to  answer,  Lynette,  Laurel, 
Dagonet,  some  others  after,  to  bear  witness. 
It  is  the  common  rumor  of  the  palace. 
You  cannot  honorably,  with  that  respect 
You  owe  the  knights  and  ladies  of  your  court, 
Allow  yourself  so  shamelessly  to  be 
Misused  and  made  a  jest  of.     I  myself 
Have  seen  Sir  Launcelot  and  the  Queen  together 
When  they  conceited  they  were  unperceived. 
It  was  but  now  I 

ARTHUR.  Silence!     One  word  more 

And,  royal  and  our  sister  though  you  be, 
Your  womanhood  shall  be  your  shield  no  longer 

168 


Too  much  already  have  we  suffered  you 
To  play  the  spy  and  weave  your  deft  intrigues 
About  our  footing.     Now  our  slackness  ends. 
We  banish  you  the  court.     Go,  get  you  ready  1 
Sir  Kaye  will  see  that,  ere  the  sun  is  set, 
You  are  far  hence  in  some  sequestered  castle, 
Where  you  shall  have  all  honor,  ceremony, 
And  revenues  appropriate  to  your  state,  — 
But  nevermore  be  seen  at  Camelot ! 

MORGAUSE.     Why,  be  a  fool,  then,  and  a  wittol, 

do! 
And  while  you  play  the  rogue  in  others'  couches, 

—  As  you  are  celebrated  for  that  sport,  — 
Your  dearest  friend  shall  get  the  realm  its  heir. 
God  punishes  your  wantonness  right  fitly, 
You  prince  of  lechers  and  of  perjurers  ! 

You,  flower  of  chivalry !     Ay,  for  chivalry 
Means  truth  to  men,  if  they  are  stout  enough, 
And  flattering  falsehood  to  a  woman's  ear. 
Murder  and  lust  are  the  two  spurs  of  knighthood, 
Which  stains  a  Lionors  and  stabs  La  Rouse  ! 

—  Proud  harlot,  I  shall  see  your  downfall  yet. 

{Exit,  followed  by  KAYE  .  ] 
169 


ARTHUR.     My  Launcelot,  sit  thou  by  my  Queen. 

My  lords, 

This  is  my  friend  —  through  good  or  ill  report 
My  friend.     Who  injures  him  by  word  or  deed, 
Were  it  but  the  thin  filnl  of  an  idle  breath 
Clouding  the  clear  glass  of  his  stainless  soul, 
He  injures  me ;  and  but  that  I  am  King 
And  may  not,  being  the  State  more  than  myself, 
Joust  like  a  simple  knight,  and  but  that  he, 
Our  stoutest  arm  as  our  most  knightly  heart, 
Needs  not  my  lance  to  right  him,  I  would  slay 
With    mine  own  hands    the   knave    that    did    him 

wrong. 

[Turns  to  GUENEVERE,  who  rises.'] 
And  thou,  my  noble  Queen  !  —  If  that  I  ever 
By  so  much  as  the  sullying  of  a  thought 
Dimmed  the  bright  clarity  of  thine  imaged  whiteness 
Within  my  soul,  may  Christ  remember  it 
Against  me  at  the  Judgment ! 
[Advances  and  kisses  her,  then  turns  to  the  others. ~\ 

Good  my  lords, 
Erase  this  most  unnecessary  scene 

From  your  remembrance. 

170 


LAUNCELOT    \_half  aside,  partly  to    GUENEVERE 
and  partly  to  himself].    Be  less  kingly,  Arthur, 
Or  you  will  split  my  heart !  —  not  with  remorse  — 
No,  not  remorse,  only  eternal  pain  !  — 
Why,  so  the  damned  are  1 

GUENEVERE    \Jtalf  apart~\.     To  the  souls  in   hell 
It  is  at  least  permitted  to  cry  out. 


CURTAIN. 


Launcelot  £^  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  ^RICHARD    HOVEY 


I.  The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.     A  Masque. 

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"The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  shows  indisputable  talent  and  in 
disputable  metrical  faculty.  —  The  Athenaum,  London. 

Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  this  work,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  the  singer  is  master  of  the  technique  of  his  art ;  that  for 
him  our  stubborn  English  tongue  becomes  fluent  and  musical. 
.  .  .  Underlying  all  these  evidences  of  artistic  skill  is  a  deeper 
intent,  revealing  in  part  the  poet's  philosophy  of  being.  ...  — 
Washington  Post. 

"  The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  has  all  the  mystery  and  exquisite 
delicateness  of  a  midsummer  night's  dream. —  Washington 
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II.  The  MARRIAGE  of  GUENEVERE.     A 

Tragedy.     $1.25  net. 

It  requires  the  possession  of  some  remarkable  qualities  in 
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"  poem  in  dramas  "  which  comes  to  us  from  America.  .  .  .  The 
volume  shows  powers  of  a  very  unusual  quality, — clearness 
and  vividness  of  characterization,  capacity  of  seeing,  and,  by  a 
few  happy  touches,  making  us  see,  ease  and  inevitableness  of 
blank  verse,  free  alike  from  convolution  and  monotony.  .  .  . 
If  he  has  caught  here  and  there  the  echo  of  other  voices,  his 
own  is  clear  and  full-throated,  vibrating  with  passionate  sensi 
bility.  —  HAMILTON  AIDE,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  London. 

There  are  few  young  poets  who  start  so  well  as  Mr.  Richard 
Hovey.  He  has  the  freest  lilt  of  any  of  the  younger  Ameri 
cans.  —  WILLIAM  SHARP,  in  The  Academy,  London.  • 

The  strength  and  flexibility  of  the  verse  are  a  heritage  from 
the  Elizabethans,  yet  plainly  stamped  with  Mr.  Hovey's  indi 
viduality. —  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS,  in  The  Bookbuyer. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

DUFFIELD  &?  COMPANY-NEW  YORK. 


Launcelot  <£jf  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  by    RICHARD    HOVEY 

III.  The  BIRTH  of  GALAHAD.    A  Roman 

tic  Drama.    $1.25  net, 

"The  Birth  of  Galahad"  is  the  finest  of  the  trilogy,  both  in 
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GEORGE  HAMLIN  FITCH,  in  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

It  is  written  with  notable  power,  showing  a  strong  dramatic 
understanding  and  a  clear  dramatic  instinct.  Mr.  Hovey  took 
his  risk  when  he  boldly  entered  Tennyson's  close,  but  we  can 
not  see  that  he  suffers.  —  The  Independent,  New  York. 

Richard  Hovey  ...  must  at  least  be  called  a  true  and  re 
markable  poet  in  his  field.  He  can  not  only  say  things  in  a 
masterly  manner,  but  he  has  something  impressive  to  say.  .  .  . 
Nothing  modern  since  the  appearance  of  Swinburne's  "Ata- 
lanta  in  Calydon  "  surpasses  them  [these  dramas]  in  virility 
and  classical  clearness  and  perfection  of  thought.  —  JOEL 
BENTON,  in  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

IV.  TALIESIN.     A  Masque.    $1.25  net. 

"  Taliesin  "  is  a  poet's  poem.  As  a  part  of  the  "  Poem  in 
Dramas,"  it  introduces  the  second  trilogy,  and  prefigures  "  The 
Quest  of  the  Graal."  It  is  in  many  ways  the  author's  highest 
achievement.  It  is  the  greatest  study  of  rhythm  we  have  in 
English.  It  is  the  greatest  poetic  study  that  we  have  of  the 
artist's  relation  to  life,  and  of  his  development.  And  it  is  a 
significant  study  of  life  itself  in  its  highest  aspiration.  — 
CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The  Bookman. 

No  living  poet  whose  mother-tongue  is  English  has  written 
finer  things  than  are  scattered' through  "  Taliesin." —  RICHARD 
HENRY  STODDARD,  in  The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

It  is  sheer  poetry  or  it  is  nothing,  the  proof  of  an  ear  and  a 
voice  wjiich  it  seeme  ill  to  have  lost  just  at  the  moment  of 
their  complete  training.  In  his  death  there  is  no  doubt  that 
America  has  lost  one  of  her  best  equipped  lyrical  and  dra 
matic  poets.  —  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  in  An  Amer 
ican  Anthology. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores^  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

DUFFIELD  fcf  COMPANY-NEW  YORK 


Launcelot  §•?  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  by    RICHARD     HOVEY 

V.  The  HOLY  GRAAL.  Fragments  of  the  Five 
Unfinished  Dramas  of  the  Launcelot  & 
Guenevere  Series*  $1.25  net. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Hovey's  intention  to  complete  his  notable 
Arthurian  Series  in  nine  dramas,  of  which  only  four  had  been 
published  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  left  fragmentary  por 
tions  in  manuscript  of  all  the  remaining  five,  and  these  frag 
ments  have  been  edited  and  arranged,  with  notes,  by  his  widow, 
as  the  only  possible  attempt  toward  completion  of  this  match 
less  monument  of  American  verse. 

ALONG     THE     TRAIL 

A  Book  of  Lyrics  by    RICHARD     HOVEY 

i6mo,  brown   cloth,  gold  cover  decoration  by  Bertram  Gros- 
venor  Goodhue.     $1.25  net. 

Richard  Hovey  has  made  a  definite  place  for  himself  among 
the  poets  of  to-day.  This  little  volume  illustrates  all  his  good 
qualities  of  sincerity,  fervor,  and  lyric  grace.  He  sings  the 
songs  of  the  open  air,  of  battle  and  comradeship,  of  love,  and 
of  country, — and  they  are  all  songs  well  sung.  In  addition, 
his  work  is  distinguished  by  a  fine  masculine  optimism  that  is 
all  too  rare  in  the  poetry  of  the  younger  generation.  —  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  Philadelphia. 

As  a  whole  it  stands  the  most  searching  test — you  read  it 
again  and  again  with  constantly  increasing  pleasure,  satisfac 
tion,  and  admiration.  —  Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Hovey  has  the  full  technical  equipment  of  the  poet,  and 
he  has  a  poet's  personality  to  express,  —  a  personality  new  and 
fresh,  healthy  and  joyous,  manly,  vigorous,  earnest.  Added 
to  this  he  has  the  dramatic  power  which  is  essential  to  a  broad 
poetic  endowment.  He  is  master  of  his  art  and  master  of  life. 
He  is  the  poet  of  joy  and  belief  in  life.  He  is  the  poet  of 
comradeship  and  courage.  —  CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The 
Bookman, 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

DUFFIELD  &f  COMPANY -NEW  YORK 


I.  Songs  from  Vagabondia 
II.  More  Songs  from  Vagabondia 
III.  Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS    CARMAN    W    RICHARD    HOVEY 

Size  4^  x  7  inches ;  pages,  75  (approx.)  per 
vol.;  binding,  paper  boards;  price,  $1.00 
per  vol. ;  sold  separately. 

"Hail  to  the  poets  I  Good  poets  I  Real  poets!  .  .  .  They 
are  the  free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing  because 
their  hearts  are  full  of  music ;  and  they  have  their  own  way  of 
singing,  too.  These  songs  ought  to  go  singing  themselves  into 
every  library  from  Denver  to  both  seas,  for  they  are  good  to 
know.  There  is  not  one  line  that  was  made  in  the  sweat  of 
the  brow,  —  and  so  the  book  goes  dancing  and  singing  in  words, 
and  here  and  there  sounding  the  deeper  note  that  always  fills 
out  the  sweet  harmony  of  a  poet's  thought." — New  York  Times. 

A   NEW    HOLIDAY    EDITION 

OF    THE    THREE    SERIES    OF 

SONGS   FROM  VAGABONDIA 

This  edition  is  printed  on  a  fine  English  paper,  with 
decorative  end-papers  by  Tom  B.  Meteyard,  and  is  bound 
in  special  rough-finished  olive  brown  calfskin,  with  gilt 
top  and  untrimmed  edges,  and  with  side  and  back  stamps 
in  gold.  It  is  sold  only  in  boxed  sets  of  three  volumes. 

Price,  $3.00  net  per  set,  by  post  $3.10. 

For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

SMALL,  MAYNARD^ff  COMPANY -BOSTON 


This  book  U  DUE  on  the  last 


3  1158  01071  0993 


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2007 


1909 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000023864  2 


Un 


